


Deep In The Heart of Georgia

by sun_dance



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, diner, somewhat AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:18:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sun_dance/pseuds/sun_dance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in Georgia, there's a broken man with nothing but his bones and a diner. One night, a reckless, beaten up kid comes riding into town. Who would Leonard McCoy be if he turned him away?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bruises and Bourbon.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Lindsey, the Kirk to my Bones, who requested McKirk, and I love diners. This just kinda happened. Roll with it. Also the editing was rushed - if you notice a typo let me know. I don't know if I corrected the timeline, so here: Bones was married about five years, and has been divorced for a little over three. He is currently 27, and in this fic Joanna was born just after he turned nineteen.

Leonard McCoy was not a difficult man. He wasn’t interested in fancy or rich or decadent; he was perfectly happy leading his monotonous life, safe inside the diner he nearly built himself. In the heart of Georgia, where it hardly rained a drop all year, Leonard led a lackluster life fulfilling other people’s needs; but Leonard McCoy was thoroughly happy in Georgia, where the sun was hot, the moon was beautiful, and mysterious lights passed along the highway in the middle of the night.

The diner was on Leonard’s list of prized possessions, and it was a short list. It included his thoroughly-not-running Firebird, a 1960’s model replica that refused to run, but he kept anyway; it included a series of pictures of himself and his daughter from her first through fifth birthdays; it included, of course, the diner; last, but not least, it included the simple silver band that he kept on his night stand, the one that had given him a tan line around his fourth finger. But those pictures and that ring supply the two reasons he keeps a bottle of scotch in every room of the apartment above the diner. 

He was accustomed to a certain routine, one that he had kept for nearly three years. Every morning, he would rise early and head to the butcher’s to get non-replicated beef for his customers, grab coffee and breakfast, and head back to open up shop for the day. There was a steady stream of customers throughout the day, which eased up at certain points, from dawn until dark. He would stay open for another hour or two, giving his patrons time to finish eating and draining his coffee pots, giving him less to throw out at the end of the night. It was on one of these routine days when, just as he was starting to wipe down tables and put chairs on top of tables, when he hears a deep rumble coming from the direction of the highway. The rumbling resonates deep in his gut, and he watches from the center of the dimly lit diner as a cyclist pulls up and leans his bike on its kick stand, kills the motor, and stands. 

Leonard can just tell from the stiffness in the rider that he’s been in some sort of fight. He can just barely make out the rider as he pockets the keys, rolls his shoulders, and checks his pockets. The rider turns towards the diner and takes a step toward the door, and it’s only then that Leonard gets a solid look at the man’s face. It takes less than a second for him to register three things: 1. This man has been in a fight, if the blood and crooked nose are any indication. 2. This man is suffocatingly attractive, and 3. He apparently is attracted to men who have been beaten up.

The man pauses in his stride, his hand flying to his back as he grimaces in the darkness. McCoy sighs, moves to the door, and turns on the flood lights to the parking lot. Where he stands, the stranger puts his hand over his eyes, squinting up at the bright flood light. While he’s distracted, Leonard opens the door and stands in the opening. 

“I’ve got two questions. Who are you, and who did that to you?” His voice is gruff, although he isn’t sure if it’s from being on the defensive, or because he’s trying not to sound timid in front of this stranger. The stranger, his eyes adjusting to the light, slowly lowers his hand and straightens. 

“James Tiberius Kirk,” he says, and tries to stifle a wince. “And the other guy was some Starfleet Cadet who couldn’t throw a right hook if his life depended on it.” McCoy takes a long breath inward and lets it out in a sigh. 

“Well, James, we should take a look at that nose. It looks a little broken.” 

“No shit,” Kirk mutters, and climbs the steps to follow the owner inside. “Are you some kind of doctor?” 

“Not exactly,” McCoy grunts, pulling a med kit from behind the counter. “I know enough to fix that nose and take care of any major damage. You look like the kind of guy who may want to keep this out of the hospital,” the older man raises an eyebrow, and Kirk averts his gaze. “I thought so. James, are you allergic to anything?” McCoy says, laying out gauze, antiseptic, and a myriad of hypos. 

“Just about everything. And call me Jim, if you’re going to be resetting my nose. By the way, what’s your name?” 

“Leonard McCoy. Everyone calls me McCoy. Looks like we’ll just have to do this the old fashioned way, Jim.” He rounds the counter and begins dabbing at the blood on Jim’s face with a wet cloth.

“Can’t hurt more than the fight itself, can it?” Jim laughs harshly, and it quickly turns into a wince when his hand flies to clutch at his ribs.

“Where you from?” McCoy asks casually, and begins cleansing the minor laceration along the bridge of his nose and along his cheek.

“Anywhere,” he shrugs, hissing as the alcohol seeps into the cuts. McCoy sets the gauze down and begins inspecting the cuts.

“Well, you won’t need stitches. Here, anyway. Got any family?”

“Mom, dad, brother – FUCK!” Kirk shouts, jerking away from the stranger. “Jesus, you coulda warned me!” He yells, clutching his nose.

“Would that have made it any better?” McCoy replies sardonically. Jim glares at him, gingerly touching his nose. McCoy swats his hand away and begins inspecting, pressing here and there.

“Prick,” Kirk mutters, even though his nose already feels markedly better. Satisfied that the nose will heal correctly, McCoy moves on to picking glass out of the side of Jim’s forearm. He guessed the man had fallen on some kind of beer bottle, judging from the green glint of the glass. He starts plucking the larger pieces before he has to result to picking the rest out with tweezers. When he’s done, he slaps a regenerative bandage over the area – ignoring Jim’s wince – and gestures for him to remove his shirt.

“I’m fine,” Jim says stuffily, but Leonard stares him down until Jim gives in and grabs the hem of his shirt. He lifts it slowly, and McCoy knows it’s out of pain, but it’s still one of the hottest things he’s seen. The man isn’t what one would call hard-bodied, but the way he wriggles back and forth trying to pull the shirt off without pulling his muscles too far in any particular way, McCoy finds that he needs to remind himself of every dissection he’s ever performed. When that doesn’t work, he has to force himself to remember every flight he’s ever taken, and finally Jim is done removing his shirt. His back is heavily bruised and there is swelling on his rib cage, but after pressing here and there, McCoy gestures for him to put his shirt back on.

“You might have a cracked rib, but there isn’t much they can do for you but give you some painkillers – which you’re probably allergic to anyway – and tell you to take it easy. You’ll live, but you’ll be a little sore for a few weeks.”

“Great,” Jim grumbled, pulling his shirt back over his head. McCoy takes the opportunity to re-pack his med kit, pointedly ignoring Kirk’s nearly perfect body as he counts the materials left. “You got anything to drink, McCoy?” He asks, and McCoy takes one look at his beaten, broken face, remembers the bruising on his ribs, and sighs.

“Yeah, kid. I got some upstairs. You got a place to stay?” Jim shrugs, and McCoy rolls his eyes. “I got a couch. Come on,” he growls, turning out the lights as he leads the man upstairs. “You eaten since you left the shithole where this happened?” McCoy asks, once they’ve made it to the upstairs apartment.

“Too angry to eat. Got anything good?” McCoy eyes the kid for a moment.

“Yeah. Not that I’m gonna give it to you. Sit down, I’ll make you something,” McCoy says, placing two small round glasses on the breakfast bar. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey and fills each glass two thirds, then starts pulling things out of the fridge. Every once in a while, he asks Jim a question – whether he likes tomatoes, if he’s ever had farm eggs, if he likes mushrooms – and finally, he has an arrangement of food on the counter. He has to continually swat Jim’s hand away from the food, offering the occasional grunt as he pretends to listen to the kid babble away. Once each component is ready, he begins cooking, adding ingredients methodically, and before too long there is a steaming omelet sitting on a plate in front of the beaten man. McCoy turns to put the pan in the flash cleaner, and when he turns around, the omelet is already half gone.

“Hungry?” He smirks, and Jim gives him a look roughly the equivalent of flipping him the bird. McCoy picks up his whiskey and drains it, pours himself another and refills Jim’s glass. Jim grunts in approval, and McCoy leaves the man to search out spare blankets and pillows. When Jim follows him into the living room, he’s got his glass, and he’s moving even more stiffly. McCoy drops the sheets and pillow on the coffee table and flops down onto the couch, toeing off his shoes with a sigh.

“Where’d you learn to do that doctor shit, exactly?” Jim asks, toeing his own boots off. His socks and jacket follow quickly, forming a pile next to the couch.

“Medical school, if you’ll have it,” McCoy grumbles.

“Bull shit. How do you go from medical school to a diner in the middle of Georgia?” When McCoy glances over, Jim’s eyebrow is raised expectantly.

“I _own_ this diner,” McCoy states indignantly, scowling at the kid. “How old are you, anyway? Don’t you have anything better to do than bum around Georgia getting into fights?”

“Nope,” Jim says, a little too quickly. McCoy decides to let him have his secret, as long as he lets the doctor thing go. “Hey, where’s the bathroom?” McCoy directs him down the hall, and steps into his own room to change into sweat pants and grab a pair for the wanderer from anywhere. He taps on the door and lets Jim know he’s leaving them on the floor for him, then returns to the living room and turns on the TV. When the kid emerges, wearing nothing but the sweat pants that are clinging determinedly to his hips and hanging off the curve of his ass, McCoy has to really put his mind to work thinking of things that aren’t this man’s pectoral muscles or, god forbid, wondering whether Kirk is wearing any underwear.

“Sorry, my clothes are bloody,” Jim mumbles, and McCoy shrugs but he’s thinking, _Yeah, right._

McCoy continues absently flicking through movies on the PADD hooked up to his entertainment system, until Jim makes a noise of recognition. McCoy pans back a few titles and plays it, hardly paying any attention to the picture itself. He pours the two of them more whiskey, unaware that he’s quickly passing buzzed and moving into the ‘too social’ part of his drinking cycle.

“Can I ask you a question?” Kirk asks, his tone light. Even though McCoy barely knows him, it triggers a warning flag.

“Um, sure,” he agrees uneasily, and Kirk shifts for a moment.

“Who’s the girl taped to your mirror?” The words sort of tumble out of his mouth, and Kirk looks almost ashamed of himself for asking when McCoy’s expression darkens. “Sorry, forget I asked,” he rushes out, but McCoy shakes his head.

“It’s fine. That’s Joanna. She’s… She _was_ my daughter,” he says, clearing his throat. “She died about three years ago.” For a long moment, Jim sits and stares at him. A heavy silence falls over them, and Jim reaches over to squeeze McCoy’s shoulder. “She had a disease. I tried… to fix it. To fix her, but I couldn’t. She died shortly after her fifth birthday, and that was when her mother filed for divorce. I moved back here, built this place, and I haven’t left since. She took just about everything. All I’ve got left is my bones… and the diner, I guess,” he laughs, and it’s full of a bitterness that leaves Jim feeling like he’s been dipped in acid. “Not that it gets much traffic these days.” Jim was at a loss for words, so instead of saying anything, he picked up the bottle of whisky and filled the glasses again. McCoy accepted his gratefully, and Jim clinked it with his own.

“To Joanna,” he said, his throat tight.

“To Joanna,” McCoy nodded, and drained the glass in one go. Throat burning and eyes watering, he set the glass down and capped the whiskey. Jim nursed his own, feeling like a huge intrusion all of a sudden.

“I’m really sorry,” Jim said, his voice cracking.

“Kid, really, it’s fine.” His tone implied otherwise, but he met Jim’s gaze nonetheless. “I mean, it’s okay that you asked. It would be a little creepy if she wasn’t my kid, right? You couldn’t have known.” The words are there, but his heart isn’t in them. Jim knows, but he doesn’t say anything, and McCoy lets it go.

“Is she the reason you dropped out of medical school?” Jim blurts out, and McCoy breathes in sharply.

“Jesus, I’ve known you for an hour? Two? And you’ve not only taken a stab but you’re twisting the knife.” McCoy moves to stand, but Jim puts his hand lightly on the man’s shoulder once more. McCoy could easily shrug him off, but he lets Jim’s hand keep him rooted to the couch.

“I’m sorry. I just… I was curious,” Jim mutters, and he has the courtesy to at least sound a little ashamed.

“Yeah, well, curiosity killed the cat.” McCoy slumps down the couch a little ways, crossing his ankles and folding his hands in his lap. At least, he thinks to himself, at least now he doesn’t have to worry about this hotshot turning him on. Nothing kills his mood (and boner) faster than Joanna being brought to the front of his mind. And, as much as he doesn’t blame the kid for asking, he knows he’s going to have trouble sleeping tonight. He’ll go into his room, crawl into bed, turn out the lights, and watch Joanna’s baby videos until he falls asleep on his pillow, wet with his own tears. In the morning he’ll wake up with his eyes nearly glued shut, and he’ll act like everything is fine, but there will be a hollow in his chest that he just can’t ever seem to ignore, and it will have widened just a little bit.

Jim stays quiet throughout the rest of the film. The credits roll, and McCoy stops the playback, only to hear a faint snore coming from the battered blonde. The bruising has deepened in color somewhat, and McCoy has a chance to give them a good inspection now that Jim is draped over the arm of the couch, prone and vulnerable. He doesn’t poke or prod, just looks, and once he’s satisfied there isn’t any internal bruising, he guides him to a laying position, and shuts off the lights.


	2. Diamond in the Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lindsey, the Bones to my Captain.

McCoy slapped his hand down on his alarm clock early the following morning. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon, but he stood at his large bedroom window and looked out over the town anyway. He could just make out Jim’s bike in the gravel down below, and he was having trouble deciding how to handle the kid once he woke up. On the one hand, he’d shown up bloody and with a broken nose; on the other, for some reason, he had an overwhelming desire to help the kid out. He seemed lost and alone; who better to keep around?

With a sigh, he turned around and headed into his bathroom to take a cold shower. When he emerged from his bedroom, Jim was standing in his kitchen, scooping yogurt out of a little cup.

“Sorry, Bones; I got hungry.” He drags his tongue over the convex side of the spoon and then smiles around the stem.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m heading out to pick up meat from the butcher’s,” McCoy shooed Jim out of his kitchen and opened his fridge to grab a bottle of water. “I will then be grabbing coffee and breakfast. Are you still hungry?” He asked, looking pointedly at the cup in Jim’s hand.

“I could still eat.” He eagerly tossed out the fruit cup, put the spoon in the sonic dishwasher, and followed McCoy down to the diner. They left through the back door, and when McCoy walked straight past the Firebird, Jim made a noise of protest.

“Aren’t we taking your car?” He asked, looking somewhat disappointed.

“The Bird isn’t running,” McCoy grunted. He lifted up a rolling door, exposing a rusty pickup, and hopped inside. Jim hopped in the passenger side, sighing with a note of sadness.

“She’s a beautiful car, Bones. Shame you let her die.”

“I did not let her die,” Bones gave Jim an annoyed look, which turned into one of intrigue. “And why are you calling me that?” Kirk rolled down his window, placed his arm on the sill, and let the wind ruffle his hair.

“Last night, you said all you had left were your bones.” He held McCoy’s gaze for a long moment, then shrugged. He turned forward again, his fingertips turning white where he pressed them into the cool metal on the door of the truck. McCoy glanced at Jim a few times, waiting for more.

“That’s it?” He said, pulling down a long drive toward a barn.

“That’s it,” Jim said, nodding curtly. McCoy didn’t say anything more to Jim until they had been served coffee and a stack of pancakes. Jim had been adamant about wanting something that was not an animal product.

Kirk cut into his cakes, doubly pleased that they were not from a replicator. McCoy took a sip of coffee.

“How long are you planning on staying in Georgia, kid?” McCoy asked. A flicker of annoyance graced Kirk’s face, but it passed quickly.

“Dunno,” he said around a mouthful of syrup and pancake. He washed the food down with a mouth full of coffee and set it down. “I suppose that depends on how long I’m welcome,” he said, looking up at McCoy through his eyelashes. McCoy, in turn, studied Kirk unflinchingly.

“You’re welcome as long as you like,” he said at last, and tension visibly left Jim’s shoulders. He had nowhere else to go; if he left the diner, where he was remarkably comfortable after only a single night, he would be on the road for days.

“Seriously?” There is measured hope coloring Jim’s voice, and he smiles crookedly. McCoy grunts, turning to his own breakfast.

“I don’t see why not. I’ve got a spare room, you have no place to go. I’ll let you stay if you help out around the diner.”

“I’ll fix your ‘bird,” Kirk promises, and McCoy shrugs.

“That thing hasn’t run in years. Don’t even bother.” Jim shrugs, looking more than a little disappointed, but he lets it go. “I just need you to help me out some days. I’ve gotten busier at certain points, and I need someone to run food out. Think you can handle that, pretty boy?” Kirk opens his mouth to snap at McCoy, but once he sees McCoy’s smirk, Jim kicks his shin from under the table. When they finished their breakfast, McCoy let Kirk drive back to the diner, teasing him for missing a gear the entire way there. It was easy; McCoy liked easy.

* * *

 

It had been three weeks, and Kirk had gotten altogether too comfortable, in Bones’ opinion. “Come on, Bones, or you’ll be turning customers away.” Kirk’s voice called to him from the doorway, but McCoy merely groaned and pulled his pillow tighter. He was mostly asleep, his back to the door of his bedroom. When he hardly moved, Kirk stepped closer, forcing himself to ignore the fact that Bones was most likely naked (he couldn’t be too sure). The man’s back was bare, the blankets on his bed coming up to his hips. Jim swallowed and leaned over, tapping Bones on the shoulder blade.

“Bones,” he whispered, about as loud as he could, and tapped insistently until McCoy lifted his head up.

“What?” He scowled at Jim over his upper arm, and Kirk fought the urge to take a step backward. McCoy was not unintimidating, especially when he was waking up.

“Are you going to open the diner?” Jim mumbled, scuffing his toe. McCoy sighed and clasped his hands, stretching them out above him. He groaned and as he stretched, the blankets caught his feet and were dragged a few inches down his backside, nearly exposing his left butt cheek. The stretch seemed to wake McCoy up enough that he realized his indiscretion, and he hurriedly clutched the sheets higher.

“Kirk, get the hell outta here!” He hissed, turning to sit up. He was naked, which wasn’t the way he usually slept, but he had cracked open the good scotch while Kirk told him about his father and had gone to bed too warm, so he’d stripped and slept buck naked; which, of course, had seemed like a good idea, until Kirk came in to wake him. Not only was he naked and more exposed to the kid than he wanted to be, but Kirk was giving him a borderline bashful look that was making him even more uncomfortable.

“All right! Jesus,” Kirk turned, heading toward the door. “Hurry up, sleeping beauty,” he said, shutting the door behind him; it was his revenge for McCoy regularly calling him pretty boy. McCoy sighed, and stood up at the side of the bed. He reached his arms over his head, stretching up and backward. The increased blood flow made his half hard cock twitch, and if he were a less stable man he would have been much more uncomfortable with Jim so close to him while he was naked and hard. He leaned over to straighten his comforter and give the resemblance of a made bed, but just as he turned toward the bathroom, his bedroom door opened with Kirk entering mid-sentence.

“… wondering if you wanted to try something other than – for the love of GOD, Bones!” he cried, and held up his hand to block Bones’ groin region from his sight.

“Kirk!” McCoy roared, covering himself at the same time. “Damnit, Jim, I need my privacy,” he growled, and Kirk turned his back as a flush crept up his neck. He struggled to find words for a moment.

“Were you sleeping naked?” He asked, sounding mildly horrified.

“You barged in here, remember?” McCoy hissed, and walked into his bathroom. He slammed the door, and Jim whirled around. The color creeping up his neck had reached his cheeks, and he was grateful for Bones’ escape. It meant he didn’t have to wait for his own erection to subside. He took a deep breath and walked out of Bones’ bedroom.

By the time McCoy came out of his room, Jim had eggs and bacon nearly ready in the kitchen, a pot of coffee cooling. It hadn’t taken long for Jim to learn that McCoy liked his foods unreplicated. Jim avoided making eye contact for a few long minutes. McCoy sat across from the stove, sipping his coffee gingerly. Jim had a long-sleeved shirt on, which was odd, given the thick heat that settled over the town during the day. It wasn’t until Jim stretched over the stove, depositing eggs and bacon onto a place in front of McCoy, that the latter became suspicious.

“Kid, what’s wrong with your arm?” He asked, eyeing the slight tremble in Jim’s wrist. McCoy’s question was ignored, so he stood and walked around to where Jim was placing the dishes in the dishwasher. Quick as a wink, he reached out and grabbed Jim’s wrist, ignoring his protests. In one fluid movement, he pulled Jim’s wrist closer and pushed his sleeve up, exposing his swollen wrist and finally noticing the bruising in his knuckles.

“When the _hell_ did you have time to pick a fight? Where? And who?” McCoy demanded, and released Jim’s wrist when he realized his grip was hurting it. Jim didn’t answer, so McCoy rumbled onward. “You’ve gone and sprained your wrist, genius,” McCoy growls, watching Jim as he shifted his weight back and forth. He said nothing for so long, McCoy huffed and walked around to his breakfast. He began shoveling in food, occasionally throwing angry looks at Jim.

“Are you even going to be able to carry food?” McCoy asks, and there is something in his voice that says it’s not the only reason he’s concerned about Jim. “I mean, I’ve got a regenerator… It’s old, from back when I was in medical school. I don’t know if it’s even got juice left…”

“That would be nice,” Jim glanced at McCoy’s face, surprised to find something other than disdain. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, it’s just… I didn’t think it was that bad…”

“I’ll let you use it on one condition, kid; no more fights. Period. Find another way to let out your anger. Hell, take a kick boxing class, I don’t care. Just stop punching _people_.” McCoy glared at him for a long moment before shoving away from the counter. He disappeared for a moment and returned with an older replicator.

“Do you even remember how to use this thing?” Jim teased, earning a slap to the back of his head. “Prick,” he muttered, and Bones smirked.

“How on earth did you sprain your wrist and not get a single mark otherwise?”

“I threw the first punch, and I hit him really hard,” Jim deadpanned. McCoy’s eyebrows shot up, and it was Jim’s turn to smirk. “For someone opposed to fighting, you sure do look impressed.”

“It doesn’t take skill to knock a man out quickly. I’m not saying you look weak, but you don’t look strong enough to do that, necessarily.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“No problem, kid. Now stop getting into fights. Work on cars, go for a run, I don’t care. But one more fight and your ass is grass. You’ll be outta here, no second chances.”

“Isn’t this a second chance?” Jim raised an eyebrow, and dodged another smack to the back of his head. McCoy lowered the replicator, inspecting Jim’s wrist and knuckles.

“Good as new. Now, go open the diner,” he said, pointing toward the stairs. Jim slid off the stool and bounded toward the stairs, glancing back at McCoy just before disappearing.

McCoy knew damn good and well he wouldn’t be kicking Jim out over a fight, but as long as the kid thought so, it might do him some good.

With a sigh, McCoy cleaned up their dishes, and wandered into his bedroom. He sighed and looked into the mirror built into the wall opposite his bed.

“You’re a fool, Bones,” he told himself, and shook his head.


	3. Mechanics Have The Best Hands

McCoy slowly opens his eyes one morning about a week later, his body sprawled diagonally across the bed. He turned onto his back, stretching his arms behind his head, and looked out at the clear blue sky for a long moment, before he shot straight up.

The sky was not supposed to be blue. That meant he’d slept in, and sleeping in means less of a morning crowd. McCoy cursed under his breath and dove toward his bathroom. He showered faster than he ever had, and was opening the front door in a matter of minutes. There was already a line of people, but something else caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted an open hood and a pair of raggedy jeans hugging a recognizable ass, the torso bent into the car.

“You folks have a seat, I’ll be back in a moment to start taking orders,” McCoy smiled, turning up the southern charm to appease his disgruntled customers, and it morphed into a scowl with every step toward Kirk. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” McCoy demanded.

Jim jumped, hitting his head with a solid _thunk_ on the hood of the car. He matched McCoy’s scowl until, rubbing the back of his head, until the man’s tone and words sunk in.

“I was just trying to fix ‘er up,” he shrugged, looking guilty as ever. McCoy studied his face and looked into the hood, but all he saw were some tubes and objects. He crossed his arms, scowling at Jim.

“Yeah, well, you should’ve asked,” McCoy muttered, and turned around. Jim stared at his retreating back.

“So does that mean I can keep going?” He called out, and McCoy merely grunted. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Jim muttered under his breath. He turned back toward the hood and leaned inward, fine-tuning the placement of the timing belt. McCoy took one last look at the ass peeking out from under the hood, groaned to himself, and went inside. He was met with a barrage of annoyed customers, promising the entire journey to the back of the kitchen to get started right away on their orders. By the time he got caught up with breakfast, lunch orders had started coming in, and he had to work twice as fast to get caught up on those. It was almost one in the afternoon by the time he was able to put together a sandwich and pour a pitcher of ice water for his tenant. He scooped out some potato salad and some cole slaw onto the plate, and placed everything on a plate along with some napkins and a fork. He was humming softly as he approached the car, and set the tray down in the shade of the makeshift carport he’d built around the car.

“You hungry, kid?” He said, hearing the clicking of a wrench.

“Starving and parched,” Jim replied, and rolled out from underneath the car. McCoy saw his feet first and leaned against a post, a glass of ice water in hand. His mouth went suddenly dry when Jim stood up, wiping his hands on his considerably greasy and ripped jeans; and those jeans were the only thing on his body, other than some worn boots. He said nothing, merely shoved the cold water at Jim harder than was necessary. A few drops splashed over the rim and landed between his pectoral muscles, causing him to cry out in surprise.

“Hey! You did that on purpose,” he grumbled, wiping at his chest. A smear of grease spread downward as he wiped the water off, and he took the glass of water with a grumble.

“Did not,” McCoy said indignantly, folding his arms.

“Did too,” Jim smirked, lifting the glass to his lips.

“Did –” McCoy stopped, narrowing his eyes at Jim’s baiting. He watched Jim tilt the glass up and begin to drink, eyeing him like a parent making sure a child is staying properly hydrated. What started out as a watchful eye quickly became a look of poorly disguised interest, McCoy’s eyes following a drop of water that had escaped from the corner of Jim’s mouth and dripped down his chin, collecting sweat as it rolled and rolled all the way down Jim’s chest, following the fine hairs lining the center of his belly. It dipped into his belly button, and McCoy’s eyes continued of their own accord, following the faint happy trail toward the top of Kirk’s low-hanging jeans.

McCoy got lost in the moment, until Jim cleared his throat, and he jerked his eyes up to a smugly smirking Kirk.

“Can I help you with something?” He asked, making his pecs dance with a ridiculous grin.

“I hope you choke on that,” McCoy rumbled, his voice low and a little hoarse. He turned on his heel and took long strides back into the diner, Jim’s chuckles following him all the way inside. He stormed into the kitchen, his ears on fire, and his pants just a little too tight. It took him a minute, a long one, for him to regain control of himself. If he could have, he would have gone upstairs to take care of the situation; instead, he had to return to taking orders, so he forced himself to think of brain surgery. While brain surgery was rarely used any longer, when he was in medical school they had been required to learn about historical medicine.

By the time he finished thinking about brains and replacing skull plates, he was safe to leave the kitchen. He took a deep breath and walked out to the counter to take more orders. Unfortunately for McCoy, the day passed quickly. Before he knew it, he was wiping off tables and putting up chairs, his feet sore and his lower back aching. When the sun had gotten low, he’d turned on the flood lights for Jim, who seemed unfazed by the darkness settling all around him. It was a miracle he could still see. With the lights off in the diner, McCoy opened the door and stepped outside, approaching the car with curiosity.

He heard swearing coming from the cab, and stepped up to the passenger door, where the window was rolled all the way down. He leaned against the sill, watching Jim turn the key. The motor would whine, sputter, grinding but never quite turning over. After holding the key forward for nearly thirty seconds, he swore again and looked up at McCoy.

“Come inside, kid. She hasn’t even made a noise in two years. That’s enough for today,” he patted the door, and straightened. Jim sighed, but pulled the key out anyway. McCoy grabbed the tray from his lunch and headed inside, Jim close behind.

“I just wanted to take her for a drive,” Kirk muttered, his shoulders sagging as they climbed the stairs.

“There’s always another day,” McCoy soothed, turning on the lights in the apartment. He grabbed a beer for each of them, popped off the caps, and sat heavily on the couch. Jim joined him with a sigh, sounding more than a little disappointed.

“When’s the last time you changed the oil?” Kirk asked, which earned him a snort.

“I can’t even remember the last time she ran, what makes you think I remember when I changed the oil?”

“It was just a thought.” McCoy grunted in response, tilting his beer bottle toward his lips.

“Next time you decide to fix something I don’t want fixed, I’d like to at least be consulted,” McCoy grumbled, his voice a low drawl. He kicked off his boots and spread his legs, his body relaxing into the couch. He let his eyes close for a moment, and the next thing he knew a strong hand was kneading the back of his neck. He stiffened at the touch, but relaxed when Kirk’s thumb rolled over a tender muscle. He groaned involuntarily, leaning into the massage, and was silent for a long minute while Kirk followed the muscle.

“I can hear you smirking, Kirk,” McCoy mumbled, with none of his usual grumpiness.

“Just relax, would you?” Kirk inched closer, shifting one leg under himself, so he could get a better angle on McCoy’s shoulder. “When is the last time you had a massage?” Jim asked, both thumbs now working down in between McCoy’s shoulder blade and spine.

“I don’t know, never?” He offered, and Kirk stilled.

“All right, well, you’re getting one now,” Kirk said firmly. McCoy forced his eyes open, giving Kirk a searching look.

“What? No. Absolutely not.” Kirk lifted an eyebrow.

“Are you kidding me right now? You walked up those steps like an old man, clutching your back and all. You need a massage. I’m going to go clean up and change, and then you’re getting one.” Kirk stood up, and McCoy resented his energy. After the mini massage, he didn’t feel like moving in the slightest. He sat on the couch in a mild daze until Jim returned to the living room, wearing a pair of sweats and a thin t-shirt. His eyes looked almost hungry, his face determined.

“All right, boss,” he stopped in front of McCoy, hands on his hips, and studied the man. He made a motion for McCoy to remove his shirt and lay on his stomach, which McCoy did not understand at all. Exasperated, Kirk sighed, and told him again – this time verbally. At first, McCoy protested, but soon he was laying on his stomach, with Kirk trying to get comfortable next to him.

“This isn’t gonna work. Let’s go to your bed,” Jim said, and McCoy tried to remember the Klingon alphabet after his brain processed that request – or demand, more like.

“Aren’t you supposed to buy me a drink first?” McCoy pushed himself up, pleased at the slack-jawed look of surprise on Jim’s face. It quickly left, replaced by a smirk.

“If memory serves, I’m not the one caught looking today.” That shut McCoy up, and he surged off the couch, walking stiffly into his room with his shirt in hand. He tossed it into his hamper, sat on the edge of his bed, and returned to the position Kirk had forced him into on the couch.

As it turns out, Kirk – with no medical experience of note – had vaguely magical hands. His slender fingers knew just where to press, where to pull, where to rub to coax McCoy’s muscles into mere jelly. He started with his neck, gently relaxing McCoy’s muscles all the way to his feet. He stopped for a moment, and McCoy started to rise, thinking they were done; Kirk seemed to have other plans, for he started anew on McCoy’s aching muscles, this time starting at his feet. He dug in with fervor, working small muscle groups until McCoy was practically in pain – occasionally until the man was squirming, groaning, and protesting verbally on the bed – before moving on to the next part of him and repeating the process. He didn’t shy away from working McCoy’s glutes, dug deep into the small of McCoy’s back, and drew a hearty groan as the knots came apart under the younger man’s hands. He was nearly asleep by the time Jim worked his arms, and was well on his way when Jim disappeared and returned in the blink of an eye with a glass of water.

“Drink this,” Jim whispered, his eyes intense. McCoy lifted up on one elbow, his body made of jello, and drank deeply. He hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was. He handed the glass back and fell back onto a pillow, wrapping his arms around it. He was already half asleep when Jim turned out the lights, and could have sworn he felt the man kiss the stretch of skin just behind his ear. He chalked it up to his deep lull of fatigue and his body’s yearning for the younger man, and fell into the heaviest sleep of his life in a matter of seconds. He didn’t even hear Jim shut the door.


	4. On Death and Dying

McCoy rose the next morning feeling better than he had in years; he stood at the big window and rolled his neck, cracking and popping with satisfaction. He’d never admit it to the kid, but he had needed that massage. He dressed slowly, relishing the loose feeling in his limbs, and made his way down into the diner. Like usual, there was several pounds of ground beef in the walk-in freezer, and McCoy wasn’t surprised to see Jim out working on the car again.

McCoy put a pot of coffee out, and when it was finished brewing, he whipped up a plate of eggs and toast and brought some food out to the stubborn kid working under the hood of his Firebird.

“Got some grub, kid,” McCoy announced himself, kicking the tire of the car. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?” he added, after Jim had rolled out from underneath the car. He sat up, taking the plate and fork.

“Thanks,” he grunted, and began wolfing down his breakfast.

“No problem. I’m going to close the diner early today, so try not to be out here late again. It’s bad for your eyes, anyway.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jim smirked, taking a sip of coffee.

“Damnit, Jim, I’m just a cook, not a doctor,” McCoy flicked his ear and went back inside, setting up the diner for the day. They kept the same routine for three days in a row: McCoy would wake up to find Jim hard at work, no matter how early he rose, and bring breakfast out to the kid. Around noon, he’d send out more food along with some sweet tea. He’d close the diner around eight, and make Jim something to eat after coaxing him inside. If it weren’t for McCoy’s insisting, Jim would probably work until he fell asleep under the hood. As it were, they had taken to relaxing and talking in the evenings. It was how Jim had learned what Joanna had died from, what McCoy’s medical focus had been, and why the entire town called him ‘Doc’ and occasionally went to him for minor medical treatment, even though he protested every time. It was also how McCoy had learned about Jim’s family, and how his father had had expectations that Jim didn’t, and was the reason Jim was – for lack of a better term – a floater.

On the evening of the third night of this same routine, however, McCoy had gotten into a deafening fight with someone who had come in with something too severe for McCoy to treat. The man, high on pain killers for his broken arm, had argued with McCoy, especially after McCoy had refused, stating that his father would have treated him without question.

McCoy had kicked the man off the premises, yelling after him that his father was dead, and he was far from a doctor.

So, when Kirk and McCoy climbed the stairs to the apartment, McCoy’s usual prickly exterior had an extra dose of grumpy. Instead of grabbing beer, he grabbed a bottle of scotch and poured himself a double, downed it, then poured him and Jim both doubles.

“Pick a movie. Anything. I don’t care,” he said, and sat down in his usual spot on the couch. He nursed his second scotch, his gaze unfocused, his mind growing fuzzy as the scotch hit his system.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a memory he had long pushed down came floating to the surface; he could do nothing to stop himself from being dragged further into himself, and in his mind’s eye he was no longer sitting on a couch next to Jim Kirk, but sitting beside a hospital hoverbed, his knuckles white against his own knee (which would later bruise from the pressure) as his father pleaded with him to pull the plug. He was pulled back about eight years to his twentieth birthday, when he’d made it a point to visit his father in the hospital. The man was old, with hardly any meat on his bones, pale and desolate. He sat at the side of the bed for a long time, his heart heavy even though he was turning nineteen, and starting medical school soon.

“I’m gonna find a cure, Papa,” he whispered, taking the limp hand laying on the bed. The old man turned his head slowly, and reached over to pat the hand on top of his own.

“Leonard,” he wheezed, his voice sounding like sand paper, “let me go. It’s time. With or without this plague on me, I have seen the world and its wonders. Please,” he whispered his final plea, and McCoy shook his head.

“Papa… I can’t,” he choked, wanting to squeeze, but afraid he would break those brittle old bones.

“You can,” the elder McCoy reached further, stroking McCoy’s shaggy hair with the utmost care. “You are strong, my boy; stop this nonsense. Go be a doctor, someone who cures old men like me; but stop trying to cure me, kid. I’m past all this.” McCoy bit the inside of his cheek, giving the hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’ll think about it,” he whispered, and laid his head down on the hospital mattress. He just wanted to stay there for a while and not have to think about the failing body belonging to his father. “I’ll think about it,” he promises, and he does; he thinks about it nonstop for three days. He thinks about it so hard Jocelyn can’t even get him to eat, and doesn’t tell him about her pregnancy until long after the funeral; he thinks about it so hard he loses enough weight his doctor gets worries. On the fourth day he returns to the hospital, and his father looks at him like he knows; and he probably did.

“I love you, kid,” is the last thing he says. McCoy waves in a nurse, and the old man closes his eyes as the nurse shuts down the breathing machine, his fingers sure and practiced. McCoy wonders how many times the man has pulled the plug on a dying patient, but the thought seems to distract him, so he focuses on the loosening grip of his father.

A sound shakes McCoy out of his memory; it’s light and grows stronger and brighter, drawing him back to the present. It takes a moment for him to realize what it is; or rather, who it is. He blinks slowly, the hospital bed replaced by an old wooden coffee table, and he looks to his left. Jim is practically doubled over laughing at whatever movie he chose, and McCoy can’t help but stare at his grin, brighter than the sun in this low moment he’s experiencing. He doesn’t hesitate for a second, just leans over casually, turning Jim’s chin with a sure hand, and then it feels like he’s kissing the sun.

Jim’s mouth is hot and deliberate; like he knew this was going to happen, like he knew this was inevitable. McCoy’s hand slides to cup Jim’s jaw, his lips parting to allow Jim’s tongue to slide easily along his own. McCoy drops his empty scotch glass, deciding to place his hand on Jim’s hip as he shifts into his lap. Jim’s hands flutter between McCoy’s hair, neck, and arms, indecisive and coy. McCoy’s hand tightens on Jim’s hip, absently wondering when Jim had changed into sweat pants. He pulls away from Jim’s mouth, sliding down towards the younger man’s neck and leaving warm, sloppy and wet kisses all the way down to his collar bone; that is, until Jim’s moan of encouragement shakes him out of his own head.

In a heartbeat, McCoy went from having Jim Kirk squirming (with what was more than likely his hard cock) in his lap, which was all he’d dreamt about for weeks, to pushing Kirk back to his previous spot on the couch.

Kirk had a dumbfounded look on his face as McCoy went through a kind of mental crisis, wondering how he had gone from thinking about his father to having Jim Kirk in his lap in under ten seconds.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” he stammered, trying to pull his thoughts together. “That shouldn’t have happened, I’m sorry,” he stood up, restless and apologetic to the tenth degree.  
“Bones, it’s fine,” Jim says, his voice full of poorly concealed rejection and confusion. “Just sit down, let’s finish the movie.”

“I should really get to bed. It’s late, I have an early day tomorrow,” McCoy rushed, not meeting Kirk’s gaze. “I’ll see you in the morning,” McCoy mock-saluted Jim in what was possibly the most forced farewell he’d given anyone in his life, and hurried into his bedroom with his shoulders hiked up to his ears. Jim stared after him, absently touching his mouth and wondering what the hell had just happened.


	5. Fast-Paced, Sure-Footed

Leonard McCoy may have been a moderately difficult man. There was something to be said for the fact that he liked things simple, however; and it was quite obvious that his relationship with Jim Kirk, for better or worse, was far from simple. For instance, from the moment he’d first taken the kid into his home, he had been nothing short of attracted to him; from his walk, which was somewhere between limp and bowlegged, to the crystalline blue of his eyes. The fact that Kirk had been covered in bruises when he first arrived had only seemed to magnify his features, a fact which McCoy was still puzzled over.

These were the precise reasons that McCoy laid in bed well past his usual breakfast delivery, his mind going over every detail from the night before: from the dropping of the scotch glass (a terribly cliché move on his part) to pushing Jim out of his lap. Talk about mixed signals.

He was finding it difficult to muster the will to get out of bed, not when he knew he would have to face Jim, and there were two possible outcomes. In one, Jim acted like it was nothing, and went about things normally. In the other, Jim acknowledged his actions frequently and with disdain, creating an increasingly awkward atmosphere.

Therefore, McCoy had no desire to further his embarrassment; staying in bed was not just the most attractive option, but the one that offered the least amount of awkwardness. He decided he was due a mental health day, that opening the diner was not a priority. It seemed like perfectly sound reasoning until he got up and ventured into the kitchen in sweat pants, a t-shirt, and a bath robe, and Jim was sitting on the couch sipping coffee and reading off his PADD. McCoy fought to keep his cool as he walked over to pour his own cup of joe, part of him hoping he would go unnoticed.

His hopes were dashed when Jim looked at him, glanced at his watch, and told him it was well past noon.

“I hope you’re not sick, Bones,” Jim said, closing out of his PADD. He finished his coffee, tilting the cup back (it was all McCoy could do to watch his throat work to swallow the rejuvenating liquid without letting his mind get any extra ideas), and stood up from the couch.

“Why’s that?” McCoy grunted, taking a drink of his scalding hot coffee for the sake of his overactive imagination.

“Well,” Jim said, barely containing his excitement. He was all but bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Wait,” McCoy cut in, and took a deep breath. “Kid, about last night… I don’t want a relationship or anything. I was in bad shape, and you were there… I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” McCoy bit out quickly, once again avoiding Jim’s eyes.

“Oh,” Jim said, scratching the back of his head. There was something in his voice McCoy couldn’t quite make out. “Okay, then. I just wanted to tell you that you’ve had customers checking the door all morning.” Jim was frowning, which was not lost on McCoy, but he could think of no good explanation for it.

“I’ll be down in a bit then, I guess. No point staying closed if I’m perfectly healthy.”

“Yeah,” Jim mutters, and McCoy echoes the sentiment. After a long moment, Jim lurches toward the staircase. “I’m going to get back to work on the car,” he says in a rush, and McCoy nods.

“I should shower and get down there,” he says, and they part ways, McCoy heading into his room with determination, Jim giving him a confused look over his shoulder. McCoy takes longer in the sonic shower than is necessary, but he is anxious about returning to his customers; most of them will know about the argument with the customer from the day before, and will be wanting some gossip.

However, by the time McCoy gets down to the seating area, there isn’t a single trace of customers in the parking lot. Instead, Jim is leaning against the closed hood of the car, his arms folded over his bare chest. The heat of the day was rising, so it made sense that he had his shirt off; however, McCoy could only sit and stare from behind one of the booth windows, watching the sunlight catch the sweat glistening on his tenant’s skin. After what feels like an eternity, McCoy finally grabs a pitcher full of ice water and takes it out to him.

“You looked thirsty,” is the only explanation McCoy offers when Jim gives him a questioning look. Jim accepts a glass of water without protest or comment, and drains it. “Why aren’t you working on the ‘bird? Are you giving up?” He asks, running his hand along the old paneling.

“Nope. She’s done,” Jim said, setting the glass on his work bench.

“You’re shitting me,” McCoy says, his voice full of shock. Jim smirked and tossed him the keys.

“Let’s take her for a spin, see for yourself,” Jim said, opening the passenger door. McCoy had rounded the driver’s side in two seconds flat, the previous night a mere ghost of a memory.

When he turns the key, the engine flips and purrs as though it never went a day without him, as if Joanna’s death hadn’t been the death of the Firebird, too. McCoy takes a moment, running his hand along the dash, and then he puts the car in drive and pulls out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of dust.

For the first time in a long time, McCoy feels free; one arm resting on the window sill, the other holding the steering wheel, the sun warming his chest and thighs.

“I can’t believe you fixed her,” he finds himself saying, over and over, until the words seem to lose their meaning. For a while, they just drive; they wander back and forth between county lines, until they find themselves climbing steadily, entering a thickly wooded area.

When McCoy finally brings the car to a stop, the cab is warm and charged; when he realizes that Kirk’s hand is resting on his thigh just a few inches below his hip, he kind of forgets to breathe. At some point during their drive, Kirk had inched closer and closer, until he was practically pressed up against McCoy. He started rubbing McCoy’s thigh slowly, moving up and down in slow, deliberate motions.

“Kirk,” McCoy choked, his brain trying to connect the dots as Jim’s fingertips brushed against the side of his cock. “Kirk, what are you doing?” McCoy asked, and it was meant to be a kind of growl, but instead his voice is unstable. Instead of answering, Jim grins like the devil and then brushed against McCoy’s cock again and – _oh­,_ that’s what he’s doing. McCoy grabbed Jim’s wrist in a flash, turning his head sharply to look at him. There is a mixture of insecurity, fear, and arousal in McCoy’s eyes. Jim’s widen in surprise and he looks suddenly guilty, sitting there with McCoy’s grip tight on his wrist. For a split second, Jim wonders if maybe McCoy really hadn’t been into him for the last two months, but those thoughts fly out the window when – for the second time in twenty four hours – McCoy is pulling him into his lap. Jim’s ass bumps the horn briefly, but neither of them hears it, and there’s nobody around for miles. McCoy is too busy pulling at Jim’s hips, grinding them together. For once in his life, McCoy stopped thinking about the repercussions, and thrusts his tongue into Kirk’s stupid smartass mouth.

For two solid minutes, he let his hands travel over Jim’s thighs, hips, and back, exploring with too much excitement to take good enough care. They break apart panting, Jim’s eyes glittering with triumph.

“I knew it,” he hissed, his mouth centimeters from McCoy’s.

“Bully for you,” McCoy grumbled, bucking his hips upward, wiping the smugness right off his face.

“So we’ve established we’re into each other, yeah?” Jim’s voice was clipped, like it was taking a great effort holding himself back.

“Sure, kid; I’m not gonna fuck you in my newly restored car when it’s a hundred degrees out, especially not in the middle of nowhere.”

“Who said anything about fucking?” Jim raised an eyebrow; McCoy mirrored it and palmed Jim through his jeans without warning, watching him squirm. McCoy had to admit it was one of the sexier things he’d seen.

“Fine,” Jim relented, sliding off McCoy’s lap. There was mischief in his eyes as he slid onto the seat next to the older man. McCoy turned the key and turned the car around, wasting no time racing to the bottom of the hill. When they hit the open road, he set his left arm on the open window, his right holding the wheel. He hadn’t been driving for more than a few minutes when a set of clever fingers began lightly stroking his thigh.

“Are you sure you want to drive all the way back?” Jim said in his ear, his voice husky and raw, his fingertips avoiding the place McCoy wanted them. He tightened his grip on the wheel, jaw set, and nodded.

“I’m sure,” McCoy hissed, gritting his teeth when Jim’s fingers flick open the button on his jeans and slide the zipper down. He slips his hand awkwardly inside his jeans, stroking him through his boxer briefs, and for a second McCoy considers stopping on the side of the road right then and there.

“Good,” Jim’s voice snakes into his ear, his tongue tracing the shell of it. His clever fingers stroke the outside of his briefs, circling his head, sliding lower to caress his testicles. McCoy’s breathing hitched and his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

“I’m going to crash this car if you don’t…” He trailed off when Jim squeezed him, his complaint turning into a groan. If Jim had any inkling that McCoy didn’t want it, he wasn’t reading the signs. In fact, McCoy shifted his legs further apart, giving Jim more access to him, and Jim took full advantage. Jim roughly pulled McCoy’s shirt to the side, licking a long stripe from the dip of his collar bone up to his ear, drawing the ear lobe between his teeth. For a second, McCoy started drifting into oncoming traffic, and that was the final straw. He grabbed the wheel with his left hand and caught Jim’s chest in his other, all but throwing him against the passenger door.

“Unless you want to wind up in a ball of twisted metal, I suggest you stay on that side of the car for five more minutes. Jesus, are you out of your corn-fed mind? You’re going to kill us both,” McCoy’s free hand redid his fly the best it could, and he glanced briefly at Jim, who looked none too pleased with himself, leaning in such a way that McCoy’s eyes were drawn to his crotch. It didn’t help that Jim was stroking himself through his jeans, and McCoy barked out a laugh. “You’re something,” he growled, and pressed on the gas a little harder.

Five minutes later, McCoy was slamming Jim up against the back door of diner’s kitchen, his tongue sweeping through his mouth aggressively.

“Next time,” he growls, grabbing Jim’s hair and pulling his head back, exposing his throat, “you pull that shit,” he continues, ignoring Jim’s throaty whine in response to McCoy nipping at his throat, “I’m going to kill you myself.” McCoy grabs a piece of Jim’s neck between his teeth, pulling roughly and then soothing the spot with his tongue. Jim is writhing between McCoy’s body and the door, one hand trapped behind his back from the surprise attack and the other on the back of McCoy’s neck. When he was satisfied that Jim got the point, he fished his keys out and unlocked the door, still crowding Jim. When the door gave, Jim grabbed two handfuls of McCoy’s shirt and dragged him inside. They struggled to climb the stairs, stopping here and there so McCoy could drag Jim’s shirt off, only to press him up against the wall; stopping again so Jim could shove McCoy against the wall and palm him through his jeans, never fully buttoned. By the time they reach the apartment above the diner, Jim’s missing his shirt and his pants are unbuttoned, unzipped, and sagging off his hips. McCoy has no shoes and no pants, and Jim had managed to wrestle part of his cock through the opening of his briefs.

“I don’t even know why I want you,” McCoy grumbles, annoyed at the fact that he can’t keep his hands off the kid. He puts his hands on Jim’s hips, shoving his pants down his skinny legs, where he kicks his shoes off and stumbles out of them.

“Could be my devilish good looks,” Jim quipped, flashing a grin. He rips a hole in the seam of McCoy’s shirt in the process of tearing it off, and McCoy shakes his head when Jim pulls him back in, swirling his tongue at the side of his neck.

“No, that’s not it,” he growled, yanking Jim’s head back. He crushed his mouth against the other man’s, both of them fighting for dominance while their tongues met. He shoved Jim away once more, this time toward his bedroom, and stripped his socks off as he followed. They were both down to their briefs when McCoy pulled him close, one hand squeezing his ass and the other on the back of his neck. He grunted and pushed Jim down onto his bed, the surprise on his face making McCoy’s cock twitch. “You’re reckless, you’re sarcastic, you do things without permission,” he knelt on the bed, one knee between Jim’s and the other on the side. He dropped over onto one hand, the other teasing one of his hips. “And yet, all I want to do is put this look on your face for the next three days,” McCoy says, accompanied by his hand sliding into Jim’s boxers to squeeze his cock. The exact look he was speaking of crossed Jim’s face, a mix between bliss and torture, and McCoy leaned down to capture his parted lips. It lasted for a few minutes until Jim shoved him onto his back, straddling his hips.

“You aren’t exactly a peach yourself,” he protested, grinding his hips into McCoy’s while he glared down at him.

“You aren’t exactly complaining,” he drawled, pulling Jim down by the back of his neck. He slid his hands down Jim’s back, gripping his ass in order to pull his hips into his own. “Now shut up and take these off,” McCoy hissed, in between leaving a trail of kisses down Jim’s neck.

“You first,” Jim whispered, the smirk evident in his voice. McCoy huffed, pushing Jim off of himself. He hastily discarded his underwear, and turned to discover a naked Jim. The gravity of their decision seemed to settle over the room as each regarded the other, naked for the first time.

“Are you sure?” McCoy asked, sounding hesitant. Jim nodded deliberately and moved to straddle McCoy once more.

“The whole playing doctor thing was where it started, but ever since I saw you naked a few weeks ago, I haven’t slept a single night without getting off to that image,” Jim said, his entire face smirking down at McCoy.

“Jesus,” McCoy grunted, allowing Jim to push his shoulders into the mattress. He started at McCoy’s right ear and left a trail of hot, wet kisses all the way down McCoy’s torso. McCoy threaded one hand into Jim’s hair, the other touching him wherever he could.

“I suppose we should figure out how this is going to go down,” Jim said conversationally, his tongue tracing circles into McCoy’s hip flexors. McCoy’s breath hitched when Jim wrapped his fist around his cock, his strokes torturously slow.

“I figured we could both go down and we’ll take it from there,” McCoy managed, his words stopping every time Jim flicked his thumb over the head of his dick.

“Sounds great,” Jim said cheerily, and in an instant he’d closed his lips over McCoy’s cock, sliding all the way to the base. He settled into a slow rhythm, one hand circling and stroking opposite his mouth, the other tickling and tugging at McCoy’s testicles.

“Kid,” McCoy hissed, his grip tightening in his hair. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep at it like that,” he warned, and he would never admit it, but it came out like a whine. Jim released him with a pop, lifting his head to stare at him.

“Oh, really?” Jim asked, the picture of innocence even as his tongue darted out to collect a heavy drip of clear pre-cum. McCoy groaned, nodding.

“Yeah,” he punctuated it with an involuntary thrust of his hips, drawing a grin from Jim. McCoy was at least happy to notice Jim occasionally started grinding himself into the mattress, so he knew he wasn’t the only one getting anything out of this.

“You don’t know how hot it is when you do that,” Jim tilted his head, his hand still stroking and slick and warm, and McCoy had to force himself to focus on his words.

“Hm? What’s that?” McCoy asked, only half aware he was even asking a question. Jim slipped his hand lower, one finger stroking across McCoy’s anus. His ass twitched, hips lifting off the bed again.

“Having you here, right on the edge,” he licked a stripe up the underside of McCoy’s cock, teasing his frenulum for a few seconds. He pressed against McCoy’s ass for a brief second, still stroking, watching his face as he struggled to comprehend. “I’ve practically dreamt about having you here,” Jim continued, his voice losing the teasing quality and turning more ragged, more hoarse. He nipped at McCoy’s hip, leaving a mark that would develop into a decent bruise. “Fuck,” he hissed, speeding up his stroking. McCoy lifted his hips off the bed, straining up into Jim’s hands and then his mouth, when he returned it to his cock. He renewed his efforts, working to bring McCoy off mercilessly. It didn’t take long, a matter of minutes passing where McCoy could do nothing but hiss and moan and avoid the one thing Jim wanted to hear.

Except when McCoy’s hips came off the bed again, this time twice as high, his grip on Jim’s hair more than painful (but worth it) and he growled out a long, drawn, “Jim!” as the person in question hollowed his cheeks around McCoy’s head, swallowing the first wave of cum as it hit the roof of his mouth.

By the time Jim released him with a pop, McCoy was trembling, and had to force his hand to relax its grip on his hair. Jim had a smug look of self-satisfaction as he sat up, stroking McCoy’s thighs as he came down from his high. After a few minutes, McCoy opened his eyes, giving Jim a look of such determination that it made his stomach twist and his cock twitch.

“My turn,” he growled, eyes glittering as he hauled Jim up the bed and onto his back, claiming his mouth and tasting himself. It was the hottest thing Jim had ever dreamed about, and he knew Bones would not disappoint.


	6. Second Thoughts

McCoy opened his eyes a couple hours later. It wasn't yet dusk, but the sun had passed over the house and was casting long shadows in front of his bedroom window. To his right, Jim was laying on his back, limbs splayed, the back of his head on the mattress. His mouth was gaping while he snored, and in spite of himself, McCoy felt some kind of affection for the kid. His hopes of their sexcapades being purely physical were dashed in that one moment, and his heart raced with panic. He slipped out of the bed quietly and pulled on a pair of shorts and running shoes, making his way quietly down and out of the house.

He set off down the highway at a brisk pace, just shy of a run, pushing himself hard enough that he had no opportunity to even think about Kirk. He ran like that for close to an hour before he slowed to a stop and bent over, resting his hands on his knees. He caught his breath for a minute or two, sweat dripping off his forehead and rolling down his spine in a slow trickle. After his heart had slowed by a few beats, he continued, this time at a jog.

That was when the doubts, the questions, started filling his head. He was stuck in his head and his thoughts were as unsteady as his feet were steady. He couldn't help wondering what was going to happen when the kid woke up, if they were going to sit down and talk like regular folk or just let things sit; would Kirk be sleeping in his bed now, or was this a one time thing? Was Kirk even going to stay? Was sex all Kirk wanted? Was sex all he wanted? He knew the answer to that was no, but the thought of Jim leaving in the middle of the night, no goodbye, made his stomach twist.

By the time his legs started to give way, he had been running for almost two hours, lost in thought. He consulted his comm, noting the sun disappearing over the horizon, and sighed. He hadn't once turned around, meaning he was two hours from home. Unless...

McCoy sighed heavily, knowing he would never make it home, and with the press of a button dialed Kirk. To his surprise, the man answered on the first ring, something coloring his voice.

"Bones?" he answered, and McCoy had to remember why he'd called in the first place.

"Um, hey kid, I hope I didn't wake you."

"You didn't. I've been up for an hour. Funny, I didn't expect to wake up alone," he said bitterly, putting emphasis on the last word. McCoy ran a hand over his face and around the back of his neck.

"Yeah, sorry about that... I went for a run, lost track of time. Listen, can you come get me?" He gave Kirk his location, and hung up after a few more exchanges. Evidently, the something in Jim's voice had been anger - at what, he had to wonder. He sat down at the side of the road, his hamstrings complaining as he did so. He took a few minutes to stretch out his legs and back, and was bent over grasping his heel when the Firebird rolled up and clunked to a stop.

McCoy looked up just as Kirk killed the headlights, and simply stared at the silhouette in the dark car for a moment. He slowly got to his feet, brushing gravel off his backside. He walked around to the open driver's side window.

"Want me to drive?" He asked, leaning through the window to grab the water from the seat. He tilted his head back and downed about half of the liter bottle, swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, then finished it off.

"No," Kirk said, sizing him up. "I think I got it," he said, holding his hand out for the empty bottle. McCoy handed it over and leaned against the door, one hand on his hip.

"Listen, thanks for coming to get me," McCoy said, looking down at the ground as he said it.

"No problem, Bones," Kirk shrugged. "Are you going to get in, or not?" He raised an eyebrow up at McCoy, who sighed and made his feet take him around to the passenger side. Jim unlocked the door, waiting until McCoy had sat down and pulled his legs in to start the car. The engine idled neatly, a gentle rumble as Jim maneuvered back onto the road, heading back toward the diner.

There was hardly any sunlight left coming over the mountains; the headlights were lending more and more light, but the dusky light hitting the other side of the valley made a decent distraction from the silence in the car. McCoy wasn't sure if he should say anything, but he was positive that the white in Jim's knuckles as he shifted into higher gear was a good clue, so he folded his arms and spent the long, silent car ride wondering if Jim was upset at him or about something else.

After a while, the sunlight left the valley completely, and McCoy had nowhere pleasant to look. The silence grew more and more unbearable, but finally, Jim slowed and pulled into the gravel lot of the diner. He turned off the car as McCoy turned to him, mouth open and ready to ask Jim what was wrong, but the man was already climbing out of the car.

For the first time, McCoy started wondering if maybe Jim was mad at something he'd done, about McCoy leaving while he was asleep, but he couldn't figure out why he would be so distant; after all, it had supposedly just been sex. He did know, however, that Jim had the only key to the diner in his hands and he wouldn't put it past him to lock him out, so McCoy hurried out of the car, slamming the door behind him, and forced his legs to cooperate in jogging around to the back door. Jim had left it ajar, thankfully, and McCoy climbed the stairs on aching knees. When he reached the top, he found Jim standing with his arms crossed, looking at some distant point in the direction of the kitchen.

"Kid?" McCoy asked tentatively, limping sorely towards him.

"Here's your keys. I'm going to bed," Jim said, his voice clipped, and he shoved McCoy's keys into his hand in a way that prevented McCoy from grabbing him.

"Jim, wait," McCoy sighed, but Jim had already started and McCoy knew he wouldn't stop unless forced, so he hooked his hand into the bend of Jim's elbow and mustered enough strength to pull him around.

Even though he'd stopped, Jim still hadn't looked him in the eye, and McCoy's stomach twisted all over again. He isn't sure of what he wants specifically, but he knows it isn't this closed, cold anger coming off Jim in waves, so he takes a step closer and gently pulls Jim's face around.

"Jim," he said quietly, looking into Jim's blue, stormy eyes. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, pressing his lips against Jim's softly. Jim's mouth stayed in a slight frown, his lips set and unmoving. "I'm sorry," McCoy repeated, making it sound less like a question and much more sure. He kissed the corner of Jim's mouth, and said it one more time - this time a whisper, and a quiet promise that he wouldn't leave Jim alone without having mentioned it previously. Finally, Jim's mouth softened, greeting McCoy's soft kiss tentatively. He wrapped his arms around McCoy's shoulders, letting the rigidity fade from his body as he molded himself to McCoy.

They kissed for a few long minutes in the living room, slow and exploring, until McCoy had to pull himself away. Their lips were bith slightly swollen. McCoy watched as Jim blinked away the glassy-eyed look on his face, his hands stroking the clammy skin in the small of McCoy's back.

"That was nice," McCoy said quietly, pressing another kiss to the corner of Jim's mouth, "but I just ran for two hours, and we've already had some fun today... I am in need of a shower and a good night's sleep." Jim nodded, and withdrew his hands reluctantly.

"Jim?" McCoy said, his voice unsure. "You can sleep in there... if you want," McCoy shrugged, trying not to sound too needy, but his hope was poorly concealed. "I'm gonna hop in the shower, either way," he said, and turned toward his room. He didn't bother closing the door while he stripped down; he didn't want to send any kind of mixed signal, and Jim had seen it all very closely anyway earlier that afternoon. He eased into the shower, using hot water to help sooth his sore muscles. He hadn't gone for a run in weeks, let alone one for that long, and his body was unhappy. When he slipped out, he toweled off his hair and used the towel to collect most of the water dripping from his body. He peered into his bedroom as he crossed the bathroom, a small smile crossing his face when he spotted Jim lounging with his PADD. McCoy hurried through his nightly routine, brushing his teeth and washing his face. He took a muscle relaxer to help minimize his soreness the following morning, and when he was done he left the bathroom and tossed the towel into the unit by the bathroom. He could feel Jim's eyes as he pulled on clean briefs, and turned toward him when they were situated.

"Glad I didn't have to drag you in here," McCoy said, a small smirk teasing his face. Jim rolled his eyes and shut off the PADD, placing it on the nightstand.

"Whatever. Get in here, Bones," he grumbled, patting the empty side of the bed. McCoy climbed in, taking care not to dive too hastily between the sheets. It took a few minutes of shifting to figure out which position worked best, during which McCoy discovered Jim liked to sleep in the nude, but before long they were both on their sides, Jim's shoulders and butt pressed against McCoy's chest and groin. He curled one arm loosely over Jim's hips, the other comfortable thrust underneath Jim's pillow, and was asleep within minutes. McCoy would never admit it, but he enjoyed the post-coital cuddle most of the time; he was glad to finally sneak it in, several hours and a panic attack later.


	7. Scotch-Soaked Memories

Some time in the middle of the night, McCoy rose and blearily made his way to the bathroom. He yawned in the darkness and ordered the lights just high enough to make out the toilet. When he finished, he returned, and had to roll Jim off his side of the bed.

McCoy slid back into the sheets, careful not to wake Jim, and placed his arms behind his head. He was just starting to drift off when his bedmate turned and settled against him, his head on McCoy’s chest and his leg flung across his hips. McCoy wrapped an arm around his shoulders and slipped into a dream.

When he opened his eyes again, light was coming through his window.

"Shutters, close," he groaned, covering his eyes with his hand while the shutters slid down the window. He knew he wasn’t going back to sleep, but he preferred the darkness. After a few minutes, he realized the person draped across his chest was also awake. McCoy placed his hand on the back of Jim’s neck, kneading gently; if Jim were a cat, he would have been purring. Whatever tension that had been in his body seeped out as McCoy followed the muscles down his neck and into his shoulder, exploring their pathways with a clinical curiosity.

"Why did you disappear?" Jim asked softly, but it sounded deafening in the quiet of McCoy’s bedroom. He tightened his grip on Jim and sighed.

"If I told you it was complicated, would that suffice?" McCoy asked, and Jim pinched his side. "I’ll take that as a no," he growled, passing his hand over the spot below his ribs. "The last person I slept with left me, Jim. You dropped into my life two months ago and it’s like… Well, you fit nicely, but what happens in another month when you get restless and go looking for another fight or I wake up one morning and you’re gone?" McCoy swallowed, squeezing Jim’s shoulder. “I know it’s a tired mantra, but it’s not you, Jim.”

“Yeah, Bones. All right.” Jim untangled himself from McCoy, avoiding his eyes. “I’m going to go make sure the car is all right,” he pulled on his briefs from the night before, and while McCoy wanted nothing more than to stop him, he knew Jim wanted his space. He watched Jim’s retreating back, offering no resistance, although they both had no doubts the car was still running perfectly. When he heard the back door slam, McCoy let out a sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He passed his hand over his face and threw back the blankets. He pulled on an old pair of jeans, a white t-shirt, and a pair of work boots, then entered the kitchen. He grabbed a banana and headed down to the diner to open for the day. He flicked the sign around and headed to the back to start up the grill for the day.

He propped open the back door to allow a breeze to flow through, and that was when he noticed Jim’s bike was gone. McCoy swore under his breath at his own stupidity, but it was too late; Jim had taken off for the day, and he had customers filling the tables already. He’d have to wait.

The day passed as a form of slow torture. No matter how many customers he served, McCoy couldn’t get the closed look on Jim’s face out of his head. He closed shortly after the dinner rush, having no desire to stand around for stragglers. He left the back door unlocked and headed up to the apartment to make himself something to eat. For the first time in two months, he had the entire building to himself, and he was finding it very lonely.

He settled on the couch with a sandwich and a double whiskey, feeling tired from his head to his toes. It was deeper than just his flesh, though; there was a mental tiredness, tired of feeling broken, tired of feeling insecure. He restlessly flicked through news stations, waiting for something – anything – that could take his mind off Jim. He didn’t want to consider that Jim wasn’t returning, mainly because it was Jim and McCoy owed him the benefit of the doubt after his panic attack the night before.

After a while, he got tired of flicking through news reels. He balled up the napkin from his sandwich and headed into the kitchen for another whiskey. With the glass full, he reached under the sink for the cheapest bottle of scotch he had. It was unopened, but he grabbed it anyway and took it back to the couch with him. He started surfing through the entertainment channels, looking for something to occupy his thoughts, but it wasn’t long before he found himself buried in the private files on his PADD.

The first file was from his wedding; in spite of Jocelyn’s pleading for a tropical wedding, McCoy had refused to get on a plane to the islands, and instead they had put on a small ceremony in her parent’s backyard. Joce, as always, looked stunning. Her floral-lace patterned dress was impossibly bright, and she’d picked out a blue tux to match his eyes, his hair had been combed over and slicked down (which he had hated, but agreed to since he couldn’t give her a tropical wedding).

By the time he reached the pictures of their house, and the baby room, McCoy had gotten through a quarter of the bottle of scotch, and it was getting harder and harder to focus his eyesight. The next picture was one of Jocelyn, sitting in a biobed. She was smiling and there was the ultrasound picture Joanna three days before she was born.

He knew what the next picture was, and while he knew he shouldn’t click the button, he did – almost without hesitation. He stared at the tuft of black hair on the tiny little thing in Jocelyn’s arms, and lifted the bottle of scotch to his lips. He swallowed roughly, grimaced, and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. The picture blurred in and out of focus, the result of a combination of alcohol and his watering eyes.

He sighed and kept scrolling through photos – there were at least a couple of good years before Joanna got sick, and he had some fifty odd pictures from that time. He still wished he had more, though. He would never get tired of Joanna’s endless smile, the toothy grin she’d inherited from him. She was the spit of him, really; she had the same chocolatey eyes, the same bushy eyebrows and mop of dark hair. They had plenty of Joanna when she was a baby; plenty of her sleeping, a few with her putting toys in her mouth, but his favorites were the few months of pictures they had where she’d been walking. She had gone everywhere, insisted on following him around wherever he went around the house.

The last picture they had from before she got sick was from a picnic they’d taken Joanna on for her third birthday. He had laid on his back, set her belly against his feet, and pretended she were an airplane – complete with whooshing noises, and Jocelyn had snapped a picture when he transferred her to his hands. Her feet were dangling towards his ribs, her hair falling in a curtain down towards him. He was smiling up into that dark curtain, her hands gripping his sleeves. He could still remember her peals of joy, even though it was just a still. He lifted the bottle again, this time drinking far longer than he had been. He set the bottle down on his knee, vaguely aware he’d drank a little over half of it, and scrolled through the next group of pictures with efficiency; as much as he hated her hospital pictures, they had hoped for a time that she would get better, and had taken a few pictures of them doing puzzles with her, watching television.

There was one picture of Jocelyn sitting in Joanna’s bed, playing a keepaway game with their hands. They were both smiling. The next picture was of McCoy lying in the bed with her, her head asleep on his chest, her mouth wide open. It was simultaneously an adorable picture and the one that broke his heart the most. She had died a few weeks later, her illness traveling faster than the experimental treatments could keep up with, and as such, it was the last picture they had of their daughter.

McCoy suppressed a sob, tears streaming from his eyes even though he couldn’t remember having started crying. He pressed the thumb and index finger of his left hand into his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. He sighed, his eyes trained on the floor, and that was when a soft creak caught his attention.

McCoy surged to his feet, his heart pounding, as all the possibilities flitted through his head. He had forgotten he’d left the back door open, and for a moment he was sure someone had come in to rob him. However, when he turned to face the staircase, he was confronted with a blurry Jim-shaped silhouette standing in the dark at the top of the stairs and started toward it, his shoulders bunched.

“Whoa, whoa, it’s me, Bones. It’s Jim. You looking for a fight?” The Jim-shaped silhouette, which turned out to be Jim after all, held his hands up in surrender. McCoy’s body retained its rigidity for a few more seconds before it fled from him, and he slumped back to the couch with a whimper. “What’s going on, Bones?” Jim walked around McCoy’s feet, sitting on the other side. McCoy rolled his head to fix Jim with his ‘don’t pander to me, kid’ stare, and gestured toward the television.

“Who is that?” Jim asked, his voice guarded. When McCoy didn’t answer, he inspected the picture a little more closely, and sighed. “That’s Joanna, isn’t it?” He said quietly. McCoy pressed his lips together and nodded, still staring into the space between his feet. He started, looking around for the bottle of scotch. He found it still in his hand, and raised the bottle to take another sip. “Bones, I think you’ve had enough,” Jim said, gently prying the scotch from McCoy’s hand. He didn’t put up much of a fight, so Jim set the scotch on the table and grabbed McCoy’s sleeve. He pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around him, before too long McCoy’s shoulders were shaking, his arms wrapped around Jim with his hands balled up in the back of his shirt, and he sobbed – loud and broken – into Jim’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken a turn for the depressing - I promise it will turn around. This is only strengthening their relationship.


	8. The Kirk Hangover Cure

McCoy shifted slightly, and it proved to be the worst decision he’d made in a good long while. He groaned, which also proved a bad idea, and the combination of the two made his head feel like it had been split open. For someone who drank more alcohol than water, he was in pretty sorry shape. It may have something to do with drinking the cheapest, shittiest bottle of scotch he’d ever encountered. That alone may not have been enough, but the fact that he drank over half the bottle certainly seemed to be a deciding factor.

He laid there for what felt like half an hour, but may well have been just a couple minutes, until he felt an arm tighten around him, pulling him closer, and he realized he was using the owner of the arm as a pillow with his arm cast over their waist. He knew without a doubt that it was Jim, and he had mixed feelings about the fact.

He lifted his arm and brushed at his eyes, feeling the dried tears from the night before acting as a crusty, dried glue on his eyelids. He rubbed at his eyes for a few long seconds before he was able to open them, and when he did, he didn’t like what he saw.

Jim’s arm, where it was, stiffened as he became aware McCoy was stirring. Where McCoy’s head had been, there was a long line of a bruise in the shape of a broom, and he could only guess it had come from such.

“Jim,” he said slowly, his voice slowly filling with subdued anger, even on such a short word. His head was still killing him, but his concern for Jim was more prominent than his headache. For a brief moment he wondered if he had been the cause, but that thought left shortly as he lifted his eyes to Jim’s face, which was considerably worse. “Jim!” He cried, leaning closer to inspect Jim’s face. His right eye was swollen and deeply bruised, his lip was split on the left side, and McCoy was pretty sure part an eyebrow and the front of his hair was singed. He could only imagine how that had happened, but it was quickly setting in that he was far too hungover to lecture Jim about fighting – again – let alone take care of his injuries. He groaned and rolled onto his back, covering his face with his hand.

“It’s not that bad,” Jim mumbled, moving his arm so McCoy didn’t roll onto it. “Besides, you didn’t care last night.” He sounded resentful, and McCoy scoffed.

“Last night I was so drunk I literally and figuratively couldn’t see straight, Jim.” Jim stayed quiet for a moment, a guilty look on his face.

“Why don’t you go shower and I’ll make you my famous hangover remedy breakfast,” Jim coaxed, getting onto his knees. He grabbed McCoy’s shoulders, helping him to sit up slowly, which McCoy protested but was in too much pain to put any effort into. He let Jim steer him toward the bathroom, and that was when he realized he was still mostly clothed.

“Jim, why am I still dressed?” McCoy frowned, glancing at Jim, who had slept in just his boxers.

“You were adamant that you could not sleep with another guy, and when I finally convinced you to, you kept saying something about keeping your clothes on or Jocelyn would get mad.” That was around the moment when McCoy realized Jim was avoiding his gaze, and McCoy sighed.

“I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean for you to come home to me like that,” he reached out to touch Jim’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off and turned on the hot water. Jim ordered the lights lower, but left them bright enough for McCoy to see safely, and then saw himself out of the bathroom. McCoy watched his retreating back, feeling just about as miserable as Jim’s back looked, and started struggling to take off his clothes. By the time he had managed to get into the stream of water, he was already starting to smell bacon cooking in the kitchen, and had little desire to stand under the water for too long. He scrubbed his skin thoroughly, though, taking care to wash his face and scrape his fingers over his scalp a few times. He decided to leave the scruff on his face, one of the rare times when he did so. He dried off as quickly as his hangovered body would allow, pulled on a pair of sweat pants and nothing else, then headed into the kitchen on shaky legs. He grabbed at one of the chairs at the bar and sat, placing his head in his hands.

A cup of black coffee slid under his nose, and he grunted his appreciation. He tested it with his lips, then took a long drink of the perfectly temperatured liquid.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” Jim announced, as though McCoy weren’t the only one in the room.

“Kid,” McCoy sighed. Jim shot him a dark look, and he visibly recoiled. “Jim,” he amended, trying to sound less exasperated. “I was drunk off my ass last night, so you’re going to have to help me figure out what I’m supposed to apologize for,” he said, and then his own eyes narrowed. “But, I’m not letting you off the hook for fighting.”

“I’m fine,” Jim insisted, flipping a couple eggs over and into a bowl where potatoes and sausage had already been mixed together. He passed the bowl, along with a fork, over to McCoy. “And you were no more infuriating last night than you usually are, so don’t worry about it.” McCoy wasn’t convinced, but he was in no shape to protest, so he set to work on his breakfast. Jim disappeared into the spare bedroom that was technically still Jim’s. He ate slowly, letting each bite settle in his stomach before he added another. When Jim reappeared, dressed in a fresh set of clothes, McCoy was nursing his second cup of coffee but still working on breakfast.

“Where are you going?” McCoy asked, when he realized Jim was not just dressed, but complete with shoes.

“Someone’s gotta open the diner, right?” He shrugged, and McCoy ran a hand through his hair.

“No, you don’t have to… Jim, can we please talk about last night?” McCoy’s voice sounded pleading, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so desperate to clear the air.

“I need a little time to figure things out, McCoy,” he said, his eyes guarded. McCoy’s jaw went slack, dropping open slightly in surprise, and he visibly pulled back. Jim’s face scrunched into a displeased crinkle, and he shook his head. “That just sounds wrong. It’s not that I’m mad, Bones… I just… need to think. All right? Let me take care of the diner, you go sleep off that hangover.” He tapped his back pocket, drawing McCoy’s eyes to his ass. “I’ve got your PADD; no more pity parties without the party master,” he said, tapping his nose, and just like that he disappeared.

McCoy stared at the space he’d just been occupying for a few more seconds, then slumped onto the counter. He finished the last of his coffee, placed the cup in the sink, and headed over to the living room. He stretched out and pulled the blanket off the back of the couch. Within minutes, he’d fallen asleep.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the next thing he knew he was being gently woken by Jim. He opened his eyes, trying to clear the grogginess, and sat up.

“I brought you some lunch. Have you been asleep this whole time?” There was an amused twinkle in Jim’s eye, but McCoy sighed and reached his arms over his head in a stretch, his back popping as it realigned itself. When he finished stretching a few seconds later, he caught Jim’s gaze on his torso, and remembered he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was caught halfway between embarrassment and arrogance, and instead of saying anything he grabbed the plate from Jim.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, and Jim nodded. McCoy was feeling considerably better, no longer feeling queasy and horribly tired.

“Anytime,” Jim said, turning on his heel as he took the first bite.

“How’s it going down there?” McCoy asked, and Jim paused at the stairs.

“Not bad,” he said uncertainly.

“How busy are we?”

“Not… _that_ busy,” Jim said easily, and McCoy narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t drive all my business away, Kirk,” he growled, and Jim flashed a grin before disappearing. McCoy set to eating the sandwich Jim had brought, and spent another hour dozing, just for good measure. He gave up on sleep after that, and donned a white t-shirt and deep blue overshirt so he could descend into the diner.

What he discovered, when he arrived, was utter chaos. There were dishes piled in the sink from the customers, Jim was swearing up a storm at the grill, and there was a definitive roar coming from waiting customers that told him Jim had definitely been lying.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He growled in Jim’s ear as he passed him to grab his apron, and pushed Jim gently out of the way. He immediately turned down the grill a few notches and pointed toward the tables. “Go take orders, I can handle the food,” he said, and flicked through the orders on the tack board next to the entryway.

“I can keep cooking, you take orders,” Jim said, attempting to shove McCoy back out of the way. McCoy fixed him with a glare and remained rooted to the spot.

“Maybe next time, kid,” he replied, clearly in his element. He gestured toward the customers and shoved Jim into the front area with a note of finality. Every time Jim came back, he looked a little less annoyed at McCoy swooping in. By the end of the lunch rush, McCoy had gotten rid of all the customers, and Jim leaned against the wall with a sigh.

“I didn’t need your help,” he huffed, placing one hand on his hip.

McCoy snorted, “Yeah, and cows fly,” as he picked casualties off his apron. “You’ve got some dishes to do, kid,” McCoy raised an eyebrow, tossing Jim a dishtowel and jerking his thumb toward the sink. “Soap up, pretty boy,” he winked at Jim and headed out to wipe down tables.

“I didn’t have to help you with your hangover,” Jim called after him, and turned toward the sink with his shoulders sagging.

“No, but you did commandeer my restaurant,” McCoy shot back.

He hadn’t been gone more than a minute when he came back into the kitchen, smiling to himself, and discovered Jim wrestling with the sprayer, his front soaked through. In an instant, he crossed the kitchen and shut off the valve, then rounded on Jim. He was standing there with his knuckles turning white on the hose, his shoulders hunched from the chilly water, his eyes burning with fury, and McCoy could not find it in himself to be annoyed at the mess.

Instead, McCoy took one look at him and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He leaned against the sink and folded his arms, fighting a smirk, and watched Jim’s eyes narrow and yet still burn brighter.

“You should probably go upstairs and change,” McCoy said, barely keeping it together. Jim took a step forward, causing a tiny hitch in McCoy’s breathing, and reached behind him. Too late, McCoy realized he was turning the valve back on, his other arm angling the hose right at him. He turned away, holding his arms out as though to block the stream, and shouted when he felt the ice cold water hit his jeans and instantly soak through. Jim turned the valve off again, and McCoy turned to find him smirking.

“You little shit,” he growled, and Jim raised an eyebrow. He flicked the valve open again, this time following McCoy as he tried to jump a few steps away. He gaped at Jim, now equally (if not more) drenched, and stomped out to the front of the diner to check that there weren’t any customers left. He locked the front door and stomped his way back to the kitchen, grabbed Kirk by the back of his neck, and steered him up the stairs to the apartment. McCoy’s face was closed fury, but Jim only took three steps past the stairs before McCoy grabbed his arm and shoved him against the wall, keeping him there with his body. Before Jim could voice his protest, McCoy covered his mouth with his own, pressing insistently with his tongue until Jim opened his mouth and let him in. Jim winced almost immediately, and McCoy groaned when he pulled back, tasting the blood on his lips where Jim’s lip had split back open. In spite of the blood, Jim’s eyes were hooded and burning.

“This is why you don’t go getting into fights,” McCoy grumbled, and reluctantly backed away. He turned his back to Jim, shrugging off his blue shirt and taking the other off by the neck. “Also, don’t pull that kitchen stunt again. Ever,” he said over his shoulder, as he unbuckled his belt, but he didn’t sound nearly as commanding as he had intended.

“The sink thing or the not telling you how bad it was thing?” Jim teased, following suit. He tossed his shirt on the floor and stepped up behind McCoy, setting his hands on the man’s hips while he explored his broad, muscular back with his lips, tongue, and teeth. McCoy shivered when Jim passed over a particular spot, arching into him, and Jim filed that away for later. McCoy kicked off his boots and turned his head.

“Both,” he growled, voice husky, and seized Jim’s hand so he could spin around. Jim winced again, and McCoy rolled his eyes. “What the hell happened to you, kid?” He demanded, forcing himself to think about something other than Jim’s mouth for just a moment. He inspected Jim’s knuckles, which he hadn’t noticed were so swollen before, and shook his head with disapproval.

“Nothing,” Jim insisted, miffed as McCoy’s habitual inspection moved toward his eye. He slapped at McCoy’s hands, earned himself a stern scowl, and then his shoulders sagged in defeat. He let McCoy poke and prod at his eye (which, admittedly looked much worse than it felt), and smirked when he brushed his fingers across Jim’s eyebrow.

“I have to ask, kid, were you literally fighting fire with fire?” He asked, his fingertips coming away with the curled ends of Jim’s singed hair.

“Relax, Bones, it was one of those drinks they set on fire. Someone had thrown alcohol in my face earlier that night.” McCoy wiped his hand on his jeans, remembered his jeans were still wet, and sighed.

“We might as well shower. Go, get changed, and I’ll run a regenerator over the worst of you when I’m done,” McCoy ordered, and for once Jim didn’t protest. He picked up his shirt off the floor and walked into his room, feeling McCoy’s eyes on his back as he went. The bruise on his chest was nothing compared to his battered back, and McCoy felt a twinge of guilt when he realized that however sorry he felt over Jim’s pain, he was still turned on at the marring of his skin. Jim opened his bedroom door just a few seconds later, emerging completely naked, and McCoy forced his gaze to stay above Jim’s shoulders.

“What are you doing?” He grumbled weakly, attempting to hide the flush creeping its way up his neck.

“You said we both needed a shower,” Jim said innocently. He spread his hands, but his eyes were burning again, and McCoy was quickly learning what that meant. He turned on his heel and walked briskly into his room, listening to Jim’s light footsteps as he followed. Once in the bathroom, McCoy shoved his jeans to the ground, his briefs following, and stepped into the shower.

“I did not invite you in here,” McCoy said firmly, when he turned around to discover Jim stepping in after him. He shut the glass door with a shrug.

“You also didn’t tell me I couldn’t be in here,” Jim observed, stepping forward until McCoy’s back hit the cold tile of the shower wall. He recoiled from the cool tile, but there wasn’t anywhere to go except into Jim. It was pointless anyway, for Jim crowed right on into his space until McCoy was sandwiched between the cold shower and the very warm Jim, their thighs and groins pressed together in a nonsexual (but definitely naked) way. Jim reached out to turn on the shower, cascading the both of them in hot water, and then Jim’s warm, slightly bloody mouth was crushing itself against McCoy’s. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he still needed to get Jim’s explanation of the fight, still needed to explain himself for the night before (and, apparently, still thinking Jocelyn would mind that he was sleeping with someone else), he knew in the back of his mind that sucking on Jim’s bloodied lip wasn’t the safest idea, but he just didn’t _care_. He threaded his hands through Jim’s wet hair, his tongue fighting against Jim’s, and he just didn’t care about anything in that moment other than tracing every bruise and scrape and cut with his tongue, and growling in approval when Jim started to rut against him.


	9. Two for the Show

When McCoy got out of the shower, his skin was pink from the heat of the water, his legs a tad shaky, and grabbed a towel. He wrapped it around his waist and tossed a second to Jim, who looked all too smug as he toweled himself off.

“I wouldn’t feel too proud of yourself, kid; I’m not letting you off the hook for getting in a fight.” Jim’s smirk faded slightly, but he shrugged.

“Small price to pay, _Bones_ ,” he said, leaning in to brush his mouth against McCoy’s neck. He turned away with a wink, and headed out of the bathroom.

“Sit your ass on the bed,” McCoy growled, retrieving his regenerator. “I’m gonna have to get a new one of these because of you. They don’t just hand these out, you know.” He walked over to where Jim was sitting stiffly on the bed. He was eyeing the regenerator with more than a little contempt, but he didn’t have a word of protest when McCoy held it up to his face. Jim closed his eyes while McCoy set to fixing the bruise and cut. He allowed the bruise to heal almost completely, but the cut he merely closed. He wasn’t about to let Jim off the hook completely.

“All right.” He set the regenerator aside for a moment, and gestured for him to lay back. He followed orders without complaint, and McCoy climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. “Now, you’re going to tell me what happened to you, or you aren’t getting any more help from me,” McCoy said sternly, and Jim pouted.

“That’s not fair,” he complained, crossing his arms. McCoy raised an eyebrow.

“Guess who doesn’t care about fair? That’s right; the guy with the regenerator. Now, talk,” he raised his eyebrows expectantly, until Jim sighed.

“I was pissed off that you freaked out,” he placed his hands behind his head, and McCoy nodded. He’d figured that part out, but Jim had yet to say it. He picked up the regenerator and started holding it over the broomstick-sized bruise across his chest. “I mean, first you kiss me and freaked over that, which I get, because you were drunk and all that. But I’m the one who was all over you in the car, so it just… I didn’t understand why you just left… After.” He met McCoy’s gaze, and McCoy froze for a second while he watched Kirk think about that afternoon. He nodded slowly, indicating for Jim to continue, and Jim cleared his throat. “Normally my partners sleep afterwards, anyway,” he winked, watching the flush rise in McCoy’s neck, even as he continued to work.

“I _was_ tired, kid,” he wished, pulling the regenerator to inspect the bruise. “Sometimes you just can’t shut your brain off.”

“Yeah,” Jim sighed, moving one hand to McCoy’s thigh. He trailed his fingers over it lightly. “I know. It still pissed me off. When I woke up, I was ready to talk about where that left us… Am I still just your tenant, or what?” He met McCoy’s gaze again, swallowed, and continued before he could even begin to formulate an answer. “It’s just, for someone who was afraid of me leaving, you sure didn’t mind pulling it yourself.” His eyes were hard for a second, and McCoy ducked his head to avoid meeting them. Jim grabbed the regenerator and pulled it out of his hands, pulled him closer. He pressed against his lips gently, holding on to the back of his neck to keep him there. “You think you know what I’m about, Bones, but you don’t,” he whispered, added one last, long, slow kiss before he released the man. McCoy sat up, grabbed the regenerator, and tried to remember how to use it.

Jim put his hands behind his head again, watching McCoy return to fixing him. For a few minutes, they sat in silence, McCoy concentrating on following the hairline fractures in his ribs where the broom had hit. Then, it was time to roll over, for McCoy to fix up his back.

“So after you left,” McCoy prodded, and Jim propped his chin on his arms while began running the regen over his back.

“I drove, mostly. Got hungry, stopped to eat, then kept driving. I could’ve driven for days, but I felt like if I went too far from here, I’d never come back. I stayed in Georgia, stopped in to Atlanta for some big southern city driving. You can’t go to Atlanta without grabbing something to eat and drink, right? So I stopped at a bar. I was only going to have a beer, Bones, I swear, but the longer I sat there…” He shifted slightly, his skin itching as the regenerator passed over the deepest of the bruises.

“Never been to Atlanta,” McCoy said, pulling the machine away to inspect his skin. He was tempted to leave them purple, to just heal the deeper tissue; there was something about Jim’s skin. It looked good battered. The thought made him shift, and Jim smirked over his shoulder.

“The shower wasn’t enough?” McCoy smacked the back of his head and pushed it down onto his arms again. He turned the regenerator off, set it on the night stand, and started kneading some of the muscles in Jim’s back. He groaned in appreciation, his neck going limp and rolling sideways.

“It was plenty, kid,” he grunted, pressing his thumbs in small circles into the small of his back. “Now,” he sat up a little straighter, working his way up Jim’s back, “tell me what happened last night after you got back. The last thing I remember is… well, something I’m not too proud of,” he admitted, and Jim lifted his head slightly.

“Was this your plan? Cause it’s pissing me off that it’s working.”

“Shut up,” McCoy rolled his eyes. “You didn’t seem all that eager to discuss it earlier, what was I supposed to do?” Jim sighed, rolling his shoulders. McCoy pulled his hands off and slid to the side, allowing Jim to roll. He sat up and leaned against the headboard, looking at McCoy steadily.

“I came home, and you were going through your PADD. You thought I was a burglar at first, but then I sat you down on the couch. We talked, for a while. You told me about Joanna, and Jocelyn – she’s kind of a bitch, I’m sorry – and for some reason you thought you were still married to her.” He scratched the back of his head, looking down at his lap. “I guess that just kinda… That sucked. Are you always gonna think that when you get raging drunk?”

“I have no idea, Jim. I don’t do that very often, you know. Looking through those pictures is hell. I was already drunk when I started. I didn’t know where you’d gone, which was part of it.”

“You also told me you quit medical school because you couldn’t save her. You said that over and over, you couldn’t save her,” Jim’s voice was rougher, and McCoy lifted his eyes for the first time since he’d rolled over.

“I did?” Fuck.

“Bone, it wasn’t your fault. How could it be? It was no more your responsibility to save her than it was your responsibility to be the first man on the moon.”

“How’s about we agree to disagree, hm?” McCoy was starting to sound cross, and Jim held up his hands defensively. “Just… drop it, all right?” Jim stared at him for a minute, then nodded, patting the bed next to him. He leaned against McCoy’s side, wrapping his arms loosely around his torso. After a while, McCoy started stroking his neck, kneading his muscles again. The room was tense, even though they hadn’t said anything for several minutes.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” he sighed; he felt like he’d been saying that a lot lately. “I’ve got a lot of baggage… I know you didn’t sign up for it, but I never asked you to, either.”

“Are you kidding me? You practically bite off everyone’s head when they call you ‘Doc’, you are the grumpiest person I’ve ever met – especially living in Georgia – and you have pictures of a little girl taped to your mirror whom you never talk about.” He sat up, looking McCoy in the eyes. He looked uneasy at his description, but Jim rolled his eyes. “I knew you had baggage the minute I set foot in your diner, Bones. Everyone’s got baggage. I’ve got baggage. It just isn’t as heavy as yours.”

“Jim…”

“No, Bones. Stop acting like Joanna is the reason you ran, because I’m not buying it. I’m sorry for Joanna. I am so, so sorry you think you should have been able to save her, but she has nothing to do with us – with me,” he amended, glancing down. Cold anger was settling in the pit of McCoy’s stomach, even though he knew Jim was right.

“You’re right, Jim. She doesn’t, but I didn’t even know you wanted there to be an us.”

“Yeah, you assumed that because I like to flirt, I couldn’t possibly want to stay.”

“Jesus, why are you so pissed off, Jim?” McCoy stared at him, and Jim stared right back, barely contained fury evident in every muscle of his entire body.

“Because, _Leonard_ , you’re all I’ve been able to think about, and it doesn’t seem like it’s mutual.” McCoy raised an eyebrow, licked his lips, and folded his hands in his lap.

“Jim,” he said quietly, choosing his words one at a time. “What is it you think I want? Jocelyn? We only got married because of Joanna. I don’t want Jocelyn; Joanna’s gone. All I have in this entire world is this diner.”

“And your bones. And me.” Jim added, and leaned forward, intense. “I don’t know what your deal is, but listen carefully. I want you, Bones. I want the baggage and the borderline alcoholism.” He was silent for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. “Join Starfleet with me,” he said, and McCoy visibly recoiled.

“Wait, what?” He had to have misheard him. Jim Kirk? Starfleet? The two weren’t exactly synonymous, and he had a thing about planes that would make joining Starfleet a considerable obstacle.

“Join Starfleet with me,” he said again, and McCoy shook his head slowly; not saying no, just trying to figure out the puzzle.

“Jim… I can’t,” he was at a loss for words.

“Why? You have nothing here except the diner, you said so. Join Starfleet with me, get a medical degree.”

“Since when do you want to join Starfleet?” McCoy stood up so he could pace around the room, Jim following him with his eyes. “You haven’t said a word about Starfleet since being here.” He turned to Jim, his hands on his hips. “What changed?” Jim was silent for a long time, then:

“Captain Pike and I had a discussion a few months ago,” he started, shifting on the bed. He cleared his throat. “Well, he left me a message,” he shrugged. “He said something about my aptitude tests, something about the USS Kelvin, about my dad and the Kirk legacy and all that…”

“Wait. The Kelvin? That was your dad?” Jim shrugged. “I can’t believe I never put that together,” McCoy muttered, adjusting the towel around his waist.

“You’re slow, it’s fine.” Jim smirked at the scowl McCoy threw at him. “I’m serious, Bones.”

“You’re actually thinking about it?” McCoy raised his eyebrows, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I don’t know, Jim… Flying –”

“Isn’t you’re thing; so you’ve mentioned. We’ll only be flying for a short time, Bones.”

“Space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence. I have no desire to be stuck up there for weeks, months, years on end.”

“Yeah, but… you’d be with me,” Jim cracked a grin, and McCoy paused in his pacing. His gaze traveled down and back up to Jim’s smirk.

“I’ll think about it,” he growled, returning to the bed. He loomed over Jim, pushing him onto his back. “Were you actually planning this? Is that why you were being weird today?”

“Of course not, Bones,” Jim said easily, and McCoy growled, grabbing a piece of his shoulder between his teeth.

“Liar,” he rumbled, grabbing the towel around Jim’s waist and tearing it away from him, tossing it to the floor. Jim pressed his hips upwards, threading his hands into McCoy’s hair. With his other hand, he grabbed the towel around his waist and got rid of it for him, and promptly wrapped his legs around his waist. He twisted, rolling so that he was on top and straddling his waist.

“Prove it,” Jim rasped, pulling on his hair to turn his head to the side and allow him access to his neck. McCoy’s breath caught in his throat, his hands moving to his hips. Jim’s teeth caught his skin, making him shiver.

“You can’t fuck me into joining Starfleet,” McCoy stuttered, trying to concentrate while Jim started working his way down his chest.

“Want to bet?” Jim looked up at him, circling one of his nipples with his tongue. McCoy groaned and pulled him up, all but crushing their mouths together. He slid one hand down Jim’s spine, the other down his chest, and Jim groaned in approval when his hand curled around his cock.

“Who says I can’t fuck you into staying?” McCoy said against his lips, and Jim grinned, shaking his head.

“I was born to fly, Bones,” he started moving down his neck, flicking his tongue lightly across his skin. Jim trailed his hands down his sides, squeezing his hips gently. “And some day,” he added, pulling his skin between his teeth just above his belly button, “you’re going to join me.” McCoy grunted, arching up into him, thinking that if this was the trade off, he could probably handle space. He shoved his hand into his hair, his hand tightening when Jim teased his tongue around his belly button.

“Yeah, but you aren’t going to convince me with sex, that’s all I’m saying,” McCoy grumbled, and then a hand was wrapped around his cock and his determination fled out the window. Jim’s eyes darkened as he looked up at him.

“I’ll take that bet,” he smirked, flicking his tongue over the head of his cock. He forced his hips to stay put and placed both hands behind his head, propping it up so he could watch the man between his legs. With one hand, Jim gently stroked his testicles, while he teased his asshole with the other. McCoy leaned over and opened the side drawer of his dresser, pulled out a bottle of lube, and chucked it at Kirk. With a chuckle, he popped his mouth off of his cock, pouring a moderate amount of lube onto his fingers. He returned his mouth with enthusiasm, and began working one finger at a time into him. By the third finger, McCoy was swearing his approval, barely able to keep from thrusting into Jim’s mouth; he was curling his fingers in tandem with his mouth, every once in a while pulling back to furiously flick his tongue across the head of his penis.

With a gut-wrenching sense of loss, he pulled off, drawing a string of curses and names Jim hadn’t yet heard him say.

“Bones, you got a condom buried in there somewhere? Bones?” He was smirking, much to McCoy’s annoyance, and he continued swearing under his breath while he rooted around for the requested article. Finally, he turned back toward Jim, who was now kneeling between his legs, and watched with anticipation. He began stroking himself, and let McCoy watch for far too long before he unceremoniously pulled open the condom and rolled it on. He added more lube to his cock and shuffled forward on his knees, taking McCoy’s legs in his hands, and positioned himself. McCoy held his breath, watching Jim’s face. He pressed forward slowly, until his head slipped inside. Jim’s eyes closed for a moment, and McCoy watched his face closely. Jim dropped forward onto his hands, pressing kisses along his jaw as he inched his way forward. When he was fully seated, Jim loomed over him, his breathing labored.

“You’re an ass,” McCoy said at last, twisting his hips. Jim smirked and straightened up so he could begin thrusting slowly in and out, knowing that it was just under what he needed to push him over the edge. He gripped his thighs just below the hips, his hands hooked underneath, giving him complete control over the speed. Every once in a while, he shifted the angle, making him grunt in appreciation. He hadn’t had a decent chance to take his time with McCoy, and he was taking full advantage while he had the opportunity.

“While I’ve got you here, where do you want this thing with us to go?” Jim asked, his voice gruff.

“Nowhere, if this is how it’s going to go,” McCoy grumbled, attempting to gain leverage by wrapping his legs around Jim’s waist. Jim chuckled, speeding up his pace just a little bit. McCoy moaned in approval, reaching down to stroke himself while Jim continued to toy with him.

“Believe me, Bones, I can be quite creative. Which brings me to my next question; what have you always wanted to try, but never gotten the chance to?” he asked, adding a slight twist at the end of each thrust.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He quipped, and tightened his legs. He shoved his hips into a roll, and smirked down at Jim’s annoyed expression. “For the record, this is one of them,” he muttered, placing his hands on Jim’s chest while he began rolling his hips. Jim propped his head up, watching himself disappear every time he lowered himself; the lack of control was disappointing, but the view was spectacular. It wasn’t long before McCoy was panting on top of him, Jim’s fist circling his cock and keeping time with each thrust. The tempo of his movements became more and more unstable, so he picked up the pace, thrusting up to meet McCoy. He leaned back slightly, angling Jim just right to brush his prostate, and then he was coming apart in Jim’s hand, his body shuddering on top of him. Jim grabbed his hips, thrusting furiously for a few more seconds before he, too, came undone. He pulled McCoy down, pressing his mouth to his neck so he could feel his heart rate returned to normal. When Jim had gone completely limp, McCoy eased off and rolled onto his back with a sigh, his eyes closing briefly.

“Your ex really doesn’t know what she’s missing,” Jim sighed, placing his hands behind his head. McCoy chuckled, a rare sound for many people’s ears, and he reached for one of the towels on the floor to clean them both up.

“I’m sure she doesn’t miss any of it, kid,” he said, handing Jim a tissue as he peeled the condom off. When they were both clean enough, he mimicked Jim’s position. Sometime later, in between dozing and talking, he wound up sprawled across Jim’s chest.


	10. Slowly, Then All At Once

It happened slowly, little by little, but it wasn’t unexpected. One day, Jim started turning into McCoy’s room at the end of the day, stripping off his clothes and tossing them in with McCoy’s. More and more frequently, he used McCoy’s shower, and before he knew it, Jim had slept in McCoy’s bed for a month straight.

It wasn’t even something he noticed until he was putting his clothes away one evening, and McCoy noticed that his closet was more full than it had ever been, and the pile of shoes on the floor of his closet did not all belong to him. He simply turned around to face Jim, reading on his bed in nothing but underwear, and stared at him.

“Is this something we should talk about?” He asked, stepping aside to show Jim the shoes on the floor. Jim shrugged, suppressing a smirk, and turned the page on his book.

“Do you even mind, Bones?” He replied, his gaze flickering up to the other’s face. McCoy opened his mouth, shut it, glanced back at his closet, and then frowned.

“No, I don’t,” he muttered, and crawled onto the bed next to him. He flopped onto his back, watching Jim’s eyes scan back and forth as he read. “What are you even reading?” He asked, already slipping towards sleep.

“’Fleet brochure. It’s got track outlines and course descriptions.” McCoy made a noise of comprehension, but he was already mostly asleep. Jim glanced down, smiling and shaking his head. McCoy turned and rested his head in Jim’s lap, nuzzling into his stomach. Jim looked down at him in amusement, then went back to reading. “I can check out the med track for you,” he teased, absently running his fingers through McCoy’s hair. He fell silent, and they sat like that for nearly half an hour, before McCoy stirred and curled up to Jim’s leg.

“What’d I tell you about fixing things, kid?” he mumbled, and it took Jim a second to realize he was still sleeping. He didn’t know whether to answer or not, but McCoy settled and returned to his gentle snoring, so he read on. He had already gone through the med brochure a dozen times, and lately, on nights when he wasn’t tired because they didn’t have sex, he stayed up reading medical dissertations and trying to imagine what his Bones would do his on.

“You weren’t supposed to fix anything else,” Bones mumbled, restless. He rolls onto his back, his head leaving Jim’s lap. He glances up from the dissertation on the potential for mutation among humans habiting non-terran planets, and frowns down at the sleeping man. He sets his hand on McCoy’s chest, worrying his lip for a long minute until McCoy turned back into him. “You weren’t supposed to fix me,” he mumbles into Jim’s leg, and it’s so muffled he almost doesn’t catch it; except he does, and it takes him a moment to put the pieces together. When he does, he sets the PADD aside and pries McCoy’s arms loose, sliding down to pull him up to his chest. He pressed his lips against McCoy’s temple, pulling him tight to his chest, and stroked the back of his neck with his fingertips.

When McCoy finally settled, Jim ducked his head and pressed against his lips softly, sucking gently on his bottom lip until he stirred. When he opened his eyes, they were heavy and troubled. He instinctively wrapped his arms around Jim, returning the soft kisses he was delivering. Gradually, his mouth became less clumsy, and he slid one hand to the back of Jim’s neck. He rolled Jim underneath him, his movements clumsy but gaining coordination as his brain woke up. He settled his hips against Jim’s, pulling his legs around his waist. Jim’s chest and hands were warm wherever they touched him, but McCoy grabbed his wrists and pressed them into the pillows. He pulled back, his eyes dark and hooded as he stared down at Jim.

“You could wake me up like that more often,” he growled, nipping at Jim’s jaw.

“You were only asleep for like, forty five minutes,” Jim sounded amused, and McCoy sighed against his neck.

“No wonder I feel like crap,” he growled, nudging at Jim’s jaw with his nose. Jim obliged, and he happily ran the tip of his tongue from his collar bone up to his ear, pulling his ear lobe between his teeth. Jim shivered underneath him, his hips squirming ever so slightly.

“Bones,” he gasped, tugging against McCoy’s grip on his wrists. The man growled in response, sinking his teeth into Jim’s shoulder. He wanted to ask him about what he’d said in his sleep, but sleepy, no-nonsense McCoy was surprisingly good at keeping his thoughts occupied. He was already half hard, just from McCoy’s hands preventing him from exploring. He transferred Jim’s wrists to one hand, his free one trailing down Jim’s side.

“These stay up here,” he growled in Jim’s ear, squeezing his wrists, and he trailed his fingertips down Jim’s arms. He unceremoniously hooked his fingers into Jim’s briefs, tugged them down and off, tossed them to the floor. There was something in his eyes that kept Jim from moving his hands to his hair, although he’d never wanted to more when McCoy’s teeth closed on his nipple. He hissed, but pressed upward, encouraging the rough treatment; McCoy edged his teeth across the sensitive flesh, then gave the same treatment to the other.

He left a purple bruise on Jim’s ribcage and another on the opposite hip, his tongue tracing Jim’s inguinal ligament and drawing a shudder. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, looking down at Jim with such determination it made his chest tighten.

“Turn over,” he growled, and Jim did so without a single note of protest. He was pulled to his knees, and Jim had a pretty good idea what was coming, but he was thoroughly caught off guard when McCoy sat back on his heels, took Jim’s ass in his hands, and sunk his teeth into the fleshy tissue. He started to turn and look at McCoy, but a growl convinced him to stay put. He felt McCoy’s tongue sooth over the bite, knowing it would be purple before morning. One moment, he was waiting for McCoy’s next bite, and the next, something warm and slippery was pressing against him. At first, he thought McCoy had somehow managed to grab the lube without him noticing, but then he felt McCoy’s warm breath washing over him, and it hit him that those were not McCoy’s fingers, but his tongue.

“Christ,” he gasped, grabbing the pillow under his forearms and muffling a groan into it. He was panting in under a minute, and McCoy had never seen him needier. He pressed his hips back into McCoy’s face, closed his teeth down on the pillow, and attempted to stifle the steady stream of moans and grunts coming from his throat. McCoy slid his hand up Jim’s back, attempting to sooth him, and then dipped his hand around under his hip to wrap his hand around his cock.

“Bones,” Jim gasped hoarsely, and McCoy sat up, pulling away from his ass. With one hand, he continued stroking, and began working the first two fingers of the other into him. Jim hissed into the pillow, dropping his head; he could do nothing but tremble, swept along a rapid course of action.

“Condom,” McCoy rumbled, and Jim was at least satisfied to know he wasn’t the only one enjoying himself. Jim leaned over, taking a bit longer than usual to search for one. He handed one over his shoulder, along with the lube, and listened to McCoy ripping open the condom with his teeth. He applied the smallest amount of lube he could get away with and pressed into Jim. When his hips were resting against Jim’s ass, he paused, letting out a long curse. He placed his hands on Jim’s hips, and started thrusting erratically. Jim pushed himself up onto one hand, stroking himself with the other.

“Not gonna last long, Bones,” he rasped, and McCoy echoed the sentiment. He leaned over Jim’s back, leaving hickey after hickey wherever he could comfortably reach while still thrusting evenly. The next thing he knew, Jim’s back and shoulders were tensing under his mouth, his body beginning to shudder. He whimpered McCoy’s nickname through his orgasm, sending McCoy over the edge as well. He stopped thrusting, his hands bruising into Jim’s hips as his own climax rocketed through his system. Jim went limp, held up by McCoy’s hands alone, and McCoy realized he had passed out.

He chuckled softly, pulled out gingerly and rolled Jim onto his side. He stood on shaky legs, retrieving a wet cloth from the bathroom to clean him up. When Jim came around, McCoy was sitting up and cradling his head against his shoulder, stroking his bicep lightly where it was curled around his chest. He lifted his head, looking at McCoy with a starstruck expression.

“You blacked out,” McCoy mumbled, and to his credit he looked almost embarrassed about it.

“Bones,” Jim said slowly, propping his head up on one hand. “If you think I’m going to let you out of my sight now, you’d better be delusional.” McCoy cracked a wry grin, looking at Jim sideways. “Have you done that before?” McCoy shook his head with two sharp movements, toying with the glass of scotch on his stomach that Jim hadn’t noticed in his hand. “Well, that was amazing.”

“I’m aware; you blacked out.” McCoy repeated, causing Jim to snort and shake his head, taking the glass from him. He took a sip and swallowed, his lips pulling back at the harshness of it, as usual (which made McCoy rumble with amusement, as usual) and McCoy sighed contentedly. “What can I say? You inspire me, kid,” he said, draining the last of the scotch.

“There’s no way in hell you’re getting out of going to Starfleet with me, now,” Jim smirked up at him, leaning in to kiss him slowly.

“Is that so?” McCoy murmured against his mouth, and Jim nodded. He slid onto McCoy’s lap, kissing him slowly and exploring his mouth slowly. He twined his fingers with McCoy’s, and he sat up a little straighter to deepen the kiss. He wasn’t quite up for another round, but he had a feeling he would be in a very short time if Jim had anything to do with it. Without realizing it, at some point, McCoy had come to realize his feelings for Jim ran deeper than just intense affection; somehow, he had started truly falling for the man.


	11. When The Rain Falls

The longer Jim stayed in Georgia, the more frequent McCoy’s days off became. He’d started opening later, closing earlier, all in order to spend more time with Jim. They never did anything particularly important; it was usually just dinner and beer, occasionally while watching a movie or simply talking.

One Saturday, though, Jim dragged McCoy out of bed early – earlier than he had opened the diner in its entire history of existence – and began throwing clothes at him to dress in. McCoy grumbled his way through pulling them on while Jim orbited excitedly around him, babbling all about how he had a big surprise planned.

“It’s not a surprise if you tell me,” McCoy grumbled, and Jim shot him a look. He left McCoy to finish getting dressed, and when he emerged from the bedroom, Jim was piling food into a bag. He had made sandwiches, and packed some fruit as well as a few beers each. He sealed the bag and looked up cheerily, encountering McCoy’s frown at the ready.

“Why, exactly, are we up so early?”

“Because we are,” Jim grinned, handing him a large to go cup of coffee. “I’ve got more in the bag, so don’t freak out,” Jim patted the bag and then jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, we gotta hit the road,” he said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. McCoy sighed and shuffled after him, grumbling all the way to the Firebird about being up early. He dropped into the passenger seat and took a long drink of coffee, casting a glare at Jim when he started the car.

“Where are we even going?”

“You’ll see, Bones,” Jim grinned, and pulled out on the road. It took less than five minutes for McCoy to fall back asleep, which was half the reason Jim had gotten them up so early. He was practically vibrating with excitement, and two hours passed in a flash. He nudged McCoy awake, his barely giddiness making his hands shake.

“Bones, come on, or you’ll miss it,” he whined. He twisted out of the car and around to the passenger side, opened the door and leaned in, grabbing the blankets he’d stashed the night before. He disappeared for a few moments, and McCoy took the opportunity to rub the sleep from his eyes. He drained his coffee and leaned his head back, but he barely had a moment to relax his eyes because Jim was bounding back to him. “Let’s go, Bones, we’re gonna be late.” He grabbed McCoy’s wrist and hauled him out of the car, closing the door behind him as he started towards an unknown location. McCoy was vaguely aware that the ground softened under his feet, and then Jim was setting him down. He shivered, noticing the ground underneath his ass was cool but loose.

“Kid, are we at the beach?” McCoy asked, blinking rapidly to wake up his brain. He glanced around, taking in the empty sand stretched out for miles in either direction, and the calm sea not twenty feet in front of them. “We are at the beach. Is this what you were so excited for?” He raised an eyebrow at Jim as he sat down, throwing a blanket around McCoy’s shoulders. He pulled the other side around his own, pressing their shoulders together. He slipped an arm around McCoy’s shoulders, and nodded toward the horizon. McCoy sighed, and leaned his head on Jim’s shoulder, his eyes drifting shut.

“You’re missing it,” Jim whispered, and McCoy dragged his eyes open to watch as the sun peeked over the edge of the world. Jim’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and McCoy slid his arm low around Jim’s waist, his hand resting on his hip. “You’re _missing it_ ,” Jim whined, when he realized McCoy was looking up at him.

“It’s a sunrise, Jim, I’ve seen them a million times. I’ll see a million more,” he yawned, letting his eyes close.

“You sure about that?” Jim teased, looking down at his slack expression. McCoy sat up, lifting his head off Jim’s shoulder, and pulled him closer. They readjusted until Jim’s shoulder, the leaner of the two, was tucked under McCoy’s arm, and Jim’s arms looped loosely around his ribcage.

“Nope,” McCoy said, turning back towards the horizon.

“So you’re going?” Jim said, his face splitting into a grin.

“You’re missing it,” McCoy said, nodding toward the sunrise, but the corner of his mouth was pressed into a line to keep it from curling up. Jim shut his mouth and turned forward, but he was practically buzzing. McCoy’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and a charged silence fell over them. After about ten minutes, Jim couldn’t take it anymore. He turned to look up at McCoy with a grin, the sun catching his eyes and ruffled hair, but before he could say a word McCoy leaned down and gave him a chaste kiss, murmuring against his lips. “I don’t need you bugging me about it constantly, okay?”

“How else am I going to convince you to go?” Jim whispered, and McCoy chuckled. He pressed a firm but chaste kiss to his lips.

“You’ve done just about all the convincing I can stand,” he smirked, and pulled the blanket tighter, closing them in to help trap their combined body heat. “No, I need time to think about it on my own, okay?” McCoy yawned and stretched, adjusting the blanket again when he settled. “Now, are you going to let me go back to sleep, or do I get more coffee?” He asked, glancing pointedly at Jim.

“Be right back,” he smiled, and in an instant he’d spun out of the blanket and started up the beach toward the car. McCoy sighed, pulling in the slack of the covers. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go with Jim; if anything, he would like nothing less than to follow Jim across the stars; but something was keeping him here, something he couldn’t put a finger on. Leaving the diner behind wasn’t the problem, either; every time he thought about hopping on that transport to Riverside (Jim had talked about it often enough, he knew the entire process by heart), his stomach clenched in such a way that made it hard to breathe, even though it was hard to imagine denying Jim of the only thing he’d asked for since coming to Georgia.

Jim came trotting back a few minutes later with the bag of food and beverages, McCoy’s empty travel mug in his hand. He pulled out a large thermos and an extra mug, handing the thermos to McCoy. He unscrewed the lid and filled his own, then Jim’s. To his credit, Jim managed to avoid the topic of Starfleet until well into the afternoon, but like all their conversations lately, they inevitably wound up  talking back at Starfleet; this go round, McCoy was expressing his exasperation that Jim refused to go without him.

“I won’t be the reason you don’t take your place among the stars, Jim,” McCoy said, stonewalling Jim’s protests with a single look. Jim stared at him, hard, like he was having trouble processing the thought.

“And I’m telling you, Bones; I’m not going without you,” he said, for perhaps the third time since their argument had started.

“Damnit, Jim,” he growled, angling his knees off the ground. He set his elbows on them, shoving his hands into his hair, and stared down at the blanket. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I can’t leave Earth, Jim,” he said, after a long silence. He lifted his head, pressing his lips together, and looked out at the ocean, because looking at Jim was just hard sometimes. He watched the waves crash into the shore and lowered his gaze back to the sand, shaking his head slowly. “This is my home. I can’t leave _her_.” The look on his face said Jim should know who he was talking about, but he was at a loss. There were approximately three ‘hers’ he could be speaking about, and he’d made no small mention of his love for the feel of the dirt and asphalt beneath his feet, nor his obsession with commemorating Joanna every month or two.

“You won’t be,” Jim insisted, and when McCoy turned towards him, he was standing up and brushing sand off his ass. “You just won’t, not forever,” he said, his voice softening, but it hurts nonetheless, so McCoy surges to his feet.

“What is it you think is keeping me here, _Kirk_?” McCoy spat; he hated to make a scene when there were hundreds of people mulling about on the hot, dry beach, but Jim refused to let it go.

“What _isn’t_ keeping you here, Bones?” Jim shot back, his tone icy. “You’ve got a car, which was a piece of junk before I fixed it, you’ve got a diner, you’ve got a fucking ex-wife who treated you like literal trash, and you’ve got a dead kid.” He ticked them off on his hand, one by one, until reaching the last, and McCoy averted his gaze.

“It is not fair for you to bring her into this, Jim,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I didn’t, you did! But she’s not here, Bones. She just isn’t here anymore. There’s nothing but a grave, _why_ do you feel like you need to stay here? What’s the difference between wallowing down here, and wallowing up there?” Jim demanded, bending down to swipe the blankets from the ground. He shook them roughly, shoved them at McCoy, and picked up the bag. McCoy followed him up to the car, stuffed the blankets into the back seat, and then rounded on Jim.

“Because, Jim; she was my daughter. I can’t just leave her behind because you want me to go flying across the galaxy.”

“Oh, please. You wouldn’t be leaving her behind any more than I’d be joining my father, and we both know it.”

“What’s so great about space?” McCoy deflected, and more anger flared in Jim’s eyes. “Why do you _want_ to go up there so badly? Does silence, cold, and death thrill you so much?”

“There’s nothing here, Bones!” Jim yelled, the veins standing out from his neck as it turned a deep shade of red. McCoy’s shoulders seemed to take up twice as much space as he stepped towards him.

“I’m here! My entire life is here, Jim!” McCoy roared back; Jim stared at him, disbelieving, until his face contorted.

“You could have a life up there, Bones,” he said lowly, and McCoy knew what he meant, but he sidestepped it.

“Don’t pander to me, kid,” he growled, following when Jim took a step back. “We both know I would hate it up there. I’ve done my research, too. I’m an aviophobe, remember? If you’ve forgotten, it means fear of dying in something that flies, like, I don’t know, a goddamn space ship. One tiny little crack in the hull of the ship and our blood will boil in thirteen seconds. A solar flare could crop up and cook us in our seats on the shuttle. And wait – just wait – until you’re sitting pretty with a case of Andorian shingles, see if you’re still so relaxed when your eyeballs are bleeding,” he was snarled, and he felt a weight of satisfaction at the way Jim’s eyes widened in minute horror. It was fleeting, and the emotion was quickly masked and replaced by another: _fury_.

“So you’re just a coward, then?” Jim fired back, moving in until he was mere inches from McCoy’s face. His blue eyes were crystalline and hard as steel, but McCoy didn’t back down. Neither said a word for a long minute, both breathing hard, until finally McCoy pursed his lips.

“Give me my _fucking_ keys,” he hissed, nearly spitting, “and get in the car.” Jim clenched his jaw and shoved his hand into the pocket of his trunks, grabbed the keys to the Firebird, and shoved them into his hand. He held on, pressing the jagged edge of the key roughly into his palm, until McCoy ripped the keys from Jim's hand and turned. He sniffed, glancing around at the few onlookers they had, and scratched nonchalantly at his nose as he walked stiffly around to the driver’s side. He wrenched open the door, slipped inside, and started the engine. He waited, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, until Jim opened the passenger door and got in.

McCoy shoved the car in reverse and backed out of the lot, casting a spiteful glance at Jim before he put it in drive and floored it off the line to a chorus of, ‘hey!’s from bystanders.

They sat in stubborn silence, each of them standing on either side of a brick wall, refusing to remove the first brick. McCoy couldn’t remember ever being so angry at another person, not even Jocelyn. His presence took up over half the car, anger coming off him in waves, but Jim was no different. He leaned as far against the door as he could, the window down, his arm hanging out the side. Neither of them looked at the other, neither said a word, and both refused to turn on the radio.

Roughly twenty minutes away from the diner, McCoy spotted dark clouds on the horizon, and in under a minute they’d passed overhead, and it started to rain. A large late-summer thunder storm was well on its way, so McCoy stepped on the gas, hoping to get back to the diner before the lightning started.

It took no time at all before the light sprinkles hitting the roof turned to their own kind of thunder, pounding down on the roof; Jim, practically leaning out of the window in his determination to get as far from McCoy as physically possible, was already drenched from the shoulders on up.

McCoy kept his pace steady, and had them pulling in just as the first lightning strike touched down a few miles to the north. He had barely parked and killed the engine when Jim shot out of the car, slammed the door, and started towards his bike. McCoy glanced at the oncoming storm, and was after him in a heartbeat, knowing that even without the rain Jim and driving were a bad mix at the moment.

“You aren’t going out like this,” McCoy yelled over the beating rain and jogged to catch up to Jim; instead of stopping, he merely bunched his shoulders up to his ears and kept on towards his bike. When he reached the machine, he ripped off its cover and swung his leg over.

“Jim!” McCoy roared, breaking into a run. Jim gave him a hard look, his hair plastered to his skull, and McCoy could see more than just anger in his eyes. “Stop,” he said, pulling up in front of him. Jim turned his handle bars, rolling the weight of the bike onto his left leg, and gave the bike a kick with his right. Since he hadn’t ridden in weeks, it barely even sputtered, giving off a pitiful clunk before the spark plugs gave up. He swore and kicked again, and again, and again; he kicked for a full thirty seconds before McCoy’s hand was on the back of his neck, the other fisted in his shirt, and he was being hauled off the bike. It caught Jim off guard; the bike wobbled and toppled toward them, but McCoy had pulled him clear of it. Jim stood there, staring, while McCoy righted the bike and dropped the kick stand.

When he turned around, it was straight into Jim’s fist, and he staggered backward into the awning for his private vehicles. He stared at Jim in surprise, and to his credit, Jim looked a bit caught off guard, as well. McCoy’s surprise turned into an apologetic frown, and that only seemed to set Jim off again. He swung again, this time connecting with McCoy’s eye, and then McCoy was retaliating. He pummeled a fist Jim’s ribs, right at the bottom, and only felt a minor pang of guilt at Jim’s gasp as he staggered backward. He started to think twice, but only for a second. With a snarl, Jim came at him, eyes blazing, and the next few minutes were a series of punches, kicks, even biting and hair-pulling, and it wasn’t all from Jim. They made their way around the side of the cover, their punches landing with equal ferocity.

Somewhere in the beginning, Jim’s shirt tore down the middle from McCoy using it to haul him into his swing; Jim grabbed one of the pieces going over McCoy’s shoulder and it ripped entirely, exposing part of his chest. When they were clear of the gravel, McCoy stepped in to Jim’s swing, letting Jim's fist collide with his temple; he gritted his teeth as his vision swam at the pain, hooked his leg behind Jim’s, and shoved his shoulder with all his might into the center of his chest. Jim’s face loosened in surprise as his weight shifted, and he wheezed as the wind rushed from his lungs upon impact with the muddy earth. McCoy bent over, placing his hands on his knees, and for a brief moment he was granted respite while Jim caught his breath. He scrambled for purchase on the slippery ground, came up with a snarl, and tackled McCoy right into the mud. They rolled, McCoy attempting to fend off Jim’s punches, blocking where he could and taking them in softer places where he couldn’t, until Jim’s fists started coming slower.

He seized a moment, in between Jim’s punch landing with his shoulder and Jim pulling his fist back to swing again, and surged upward. He wrapped his arm around the back of Jim’s head, bringing him snug into his arm pit, and used his weight to leverage his forearm against Jim’s wind pipe, cutting off his air little by little. In a fit of rage, Jim let out a strangled cry, and thrashed wildly until McCoy released his head. His momentum carried him all the way to his feet, where he stumbled backward, gasping for air. He placed his hands on his hips, lifting his chin up while he waited for the stars to clear from his vision. McCoy, panting heavily, pushed himself into a standing position as well. His shoulders sagged and he hauled his breaths in with determination. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of brawl, where emotions carried the body through.

There was a split in his lip and a gash on his cheek where Jim had punched him with a muddy hand, a quarter inch piece of gravel stuck in the cracks of his knuckles. Jim’s cheek was turning purple already, his back scraped from the small pieces of gravel in the mud they’d been rolling around in, and his nose was bleeding freely. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, and with a strangled yell, came charging at McCoy again with his teeth bared.

He barely had time to prepare himself, and all he could do was tense as Jim’s body staggered into him. He braced himself for the next attack, but it never came; at least, not with the same determination. Instead of the expected tackle, Jim crashed into him with not quite his full weight, his fists still swinging but with none of their prior gusto. McCoy let out a harsh breath, biting back his emotions, and instead he wrapped an arm under Jim’s, holding him up. The moment he tightened the embrace, Jim sagged further, his fists still thumping against McCoy’s back. After a few minutes, the fists opened, turning to half-hearted slaps. Eventually, even those died out, and Jim’s arms stilled against him, with one curled under his arm and up towards his shoulder, the other looped over the other side. It took McCoy a long time to realize he was shaking, and even longer still to realize that he was sobbing silently into McCoy’s bare shoulder.

He didn’t say a word, merely tucked his chin down against Jim’s trapezius, his embrace tightening every chance he got. He didn’t think he’d ever held or been held so tight. He didn’t say anything; neither did Jim. They didn’t have to, really. They stood there, the mud on their skin being washed away but still clinging to their clothes like distant but permanent memories, the words they were too afraid or too stubborn to say bruised and scraped into each other’s skin. McCoy closed his eyes quietly, swaying slightly in an effort to soothe the man he loved unconditionally, because you had to love someone unconditionally to love them after they’d attempted to shove mud into your eyes. He moved one hand to cradle the back of Jim’s head, and he heard Jim speak for the first time since they left the beach.

“I can’t lose you, Bones,” he choked, sounding as broken as he looked, and McCoy couldn’t stop his throat from tightening painfully. He blinked furiously and swallowed around the golf ball in his throat, willing himself not to fall apart, too, because where would that leave them? But then he does anyway, his own cries bubbling up from a place he rarely went to, and he gripped Jim tighter still.

“I know,” he said softly, kissing Jim’s shoulder. He says it again, making sure Jim heard it, and he wonders if Jim would crack his ribs if he squeezed any tighter.

The rain continued, beating down upon them where the stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say, this is possibly my favorite chapter I've written so far for many reasons, the least of all in terms of my writing. (although I know of some other arguments I could make for it). I'd also like to just add a big thank you to everyone who has commented, kudo'd (I'm making that a verb, deal with it), bookmarked, and red'd this fic. I haven't written anything for this fandom yet, and this definitely won't be my last. There's at least one more chapter left of this, but it will likely be two or three more. Again, thank you for reading, and any feedback - especially about my writing - is appreciated!


	12. Denial Is Just A River

Gradually, Jim’s viselike embrace started to relax. McCoy could feel it in the way his chest was able to expand a little more, a little easier, as the minutes passed. He alternated between stroking the back of Jim’s head with one hand, and rubbing up and down his back with the other. Jim seemed to be trying to fold himself into his chest, his forehead tucked into the side of McCoy’s neck, his arms curling inward, until finally Jim was merely clutching the front of his torn shirt.

“It’s all right,” McCoy murmured into his sopping wet hair. “It’s okay,” he whispered, gently rubbing the back of Jim’s neck. He was acutely aware of where each and every one of his blows had landed, and the guilt he felt was immeasurable. This man he thought he cared for, who would soon be covered black and blue by his own doing. He sighed, his shoulders crumbling just a little.

Jim was no longer sobbing, but he was still trembling, and it took McCoy a while to realize he was shivering. He pulled back just enough to get a hand under Jim’s chin, and he held it firmly as he tilted his head up.

“Jim,” he said softly, searching the deep blue of his eyes to make sure he was paying attention. He pressed his lips into a line and shook his head. “I am so sorry,” he whispered. Jim took a deep breath and closed his eyes, wrapped one hand around the back of McCoy’s neck and pressed their foreheads together.

“I am, too, Bones,” he said, and McCoy lifted his hand to cup the side of his jaw that wasn’t bruised. They stood like that for a few moments, until McCoy started shivering as well.

“Okay, we’re both sorry,” he said, one edge of his mouth curling up. He leaned in and pressed the most tender kiss he could muster to the side of Jim’s mouth, avoiding the swollen and split edge. “We should get inside, though,” McCoy whispered, and felt Jim nod against him. He pulled back, not wanting to stray more than a few inches; Jim seemed to be on the same page, for he wrapped his arm tight around McCoy’s waist, and together they walked gingerly toward the back door of the diner.

By the time they reached the apartment on the second level, Jim’s shivering had doubled in strength. McCoy steered him straight into the bedroom, mindless of the mud they were tracking in. He stopped Jim in his bedroom and turned to face him, entering care-giving mode, and gently pulled Jim’s tattered shirt over his head. The moment it was free, Jim leaned forward, catching McCoy’s mouth with his own. He framed his face with his hands, holding him there as if he were afraid he would be pushed away. Instead, McCoy set his hands on Jim’s hips, feeling Jim’s tongue delicately trace the outside of his mouth. Jim turned his head to deepen the kiss, and McCoy gently pulled back.

“You need to get warmed up, Jim,” he said gruffly. Jim pouted, reaching for the edge of McCoy’s shirt. He pulled it over the protesting man’s head a little rougher than necessary, and moved back in to continue kissing him. He was held almost at arm’s length, receiving a stern look from the older man.

“Bones, I –”

“Shower. Now. You’re filthy and cold.”

“Why don’t you join me?” Jim asked, and McCoy sighed.

“Because we both know what happens when we’re in there. Go shower, I’ll shower after you, and then I’ll make us some food.”

“No, _I’ll_ make us some food,” Jim scoffed, hooking his thumbs into the board shorts he’d worn to the beach. He pushed them to the floor and marched into the bathroom, casting a pout over his shoulder as he shut the door. McCoy sat down on the bed with a heavy sigh, dropping his head into his hands. He swallowed past the stone in his throat and thought back to the feral look that had been in Jim’s eyes. The first punch hadn’t been much more than a shock; Jim had even seemed taken aback by it, but boy did the second blow hurt like a bitch. He gingerly touched the edge of his eye socket where Jim’s knuckles had connected, wincing at the pain that flared up into his temple. That would definitely need the regenerator, except he felt more like letting the pain stay for a few days as a reminder. He pulled his hand away from his eye, inspecting his knuckles. They were already red, and flushing more by the second. He knew that if he wasn’t going to use the regenerator, he should really put ice over the thin-skinned areas to help keep swelling down, but he didn’t care enough to go to the kitchen. Instead, he closed his fist and re-counted every blow he’d delivered. Before the mud, he’d landed a total of seventeen hard punches. Each time, feeling some part of Jim give way, it had both fueled and eaten at his anger towards Jim’s insolence.

After all, was he not living there for free? Who was James Tiberius Fucking Kirk to decide when he had suffered enough for Joanna? Nobody, that’s fucking who, and yet, even thinking it, he felt the guilt swell in his stomach again. He dropped his elbows to his knees and his face in his hands, knowing that he hadn’t been angry at Jim, not for a second. He’d been afraid, but afraid of what?

He wasn’t afraid of leaving the diner; his father had never put much work into it, as it had been a clinic in his day, and McCoy was the one who converted it after Jocelyn took almost everything in their divorce. He wasn’t afraid of leaving Joanna behind, either; as long as the PADD with all of their pictures was in his possession, he would never be without her. He hadn’t been to her grave in months, either. No, he knew what he was afraid of, and that was Jim Kirk leaving the planet without him. Every time he thought about it, he got a twisted feeling in his gut; yet every time Jim asked him about it, he had to go and say he was still thinking about it – as if he’d let Jim out of his life that easily, as if Jim could walk out the door without a second glance… What terrified him was the thought that, in spite of all Jim’s talk about not going without him, he didn’t quite believe him. His chest tightened with guilt and fear at the thought, and that was when he heard his voice.

“Bones?” Jim said softly, one hand tying the towel at his waist.

McCoy scrubbed his hands down his face enough to peer over them at Jim, his eyes red-rimmed. He sighed, dropping one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. He slid his thumb and index finger outward, collecting the moisture that had been slipping down from his eyes, and he looked up.

“You done?” He asked unsteadily, and rose from the bed.

“Yeah,” Jim said, still staring at McCoy like he was about to break and he wasn’t sure whether to ask about it. McCoy stood there for a moment, his hands opening and closing at his sides, and then he took quick, sure strides towards Jim. He paused for just a moment right in front of him, registering Jim’s bewildered and concerned look, before he took Jim’s face between his hands and kissed him. He pressed forward until Jim’s back was against the door jam, the towel held up by the pressure of McCoy’s hips against his. Jim looped his arms underneath McCoy’s, his fingertips digging in to his back while McCoy worked his way down Jim’s neck.

“Bones,” Jim rasped, squirming against the man; McCoy pulled his head back, his eyes clouded and his mouth swollen just a little.

“I can’t lose you either, Jim,” he said hoarsely, the words tumbling out of his mouth. Jim’s mouth opened to a small circle of surprise, and the next thing he knew Jim was pushing him backward – not away, but backing him up towards the bed, nipping at his throat furiously.

“Jim, I still need to shower,” McCoy protested, but in a moment his calves hit the bed and he tumbled back onto it, and then Jim was tugging his shorts off.

“It can wait,” Jim snapped. He climbed onto McCoy’s lap, kissing McCoy so hard he forgot how to breathe, and it all felt very familiar; Jim in his lap, both of them gasping for air. Only there’s nothing stopping them this time and no clothes getting in the way – except for that damn towel, but he yanked at the knot in the middle and tossed it aside. He leaned back onto the bed, pulling Jim down with him, and tried to memorize every square inch of flesh that made up Jim Kirk; he tried to commit to memory how it felt when Jim pressed himself firmly into him, tried to memorize the hitch in Jim’s breathing when he squeezed his ass playfully. He made a mental note to remember the way it felt when Jim slid down his body, knelt between his knees and began sucking and fingering him at the same time, because Jim never did anything halfway; when Jim slid into him, it felt like it always did: perfect, full, and slippery.

When they were done, Jim collapsed onto the bed beside him, his head on McCoy’s shoulder. The sheets were a mess of sweat and the mud that had still been stubbornly clinging to McCoy’s back and legs, but Jim didn’t seem to mind. He allowed Jim to calm down in his arms, before he pressed a kiss to the top of Jim’s head.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he said, grinning into Jim’s hair, “but I really do need a shower. Can you strip the bed and make us a couple of sandwiches?” McCoy asked, his voice low and gravelly from his encouraging shouts. Jim nodded sleepily, pressed a kiss into the hollow of McCoy’s collar bone, and they stood up together. Jim pulled him close, all warm skin and loose limbs as he wrapped himself around McCoy one more time.

“Don’t take too long,” Jim mumbled, and headed to the closet to pull out clothes. McCoy grinned and headed into the bathroom to rinse off.

By the time he emerged, Jim had already remade the bed, and he could hear the man humming from the kitchen. McCoy pulled an old t-shirt over his head and slipped into a pair of briefs, hearing Jim’s humming growing louder as he approached.

Jim toed open the door that he’d left slightly ajar, carrying a tray with two sandwiches, two beers, and a pair of apples. He gestured to the bed, and although McCoy rolled his eyes, he obliged. Jim ordered the radio to start playing some old southern music, and sat opposite McCoy with one leg hanging off the bed and his sweat pants dangerously low on his hips. McCoy picked up his sandwich, his stomach growling on cue.

“How is it that in one day, you practically flood my diner, and yet you make a flawless sandwich in my apartment?” McCoy asked through a mouthful. Jim smirked and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Maybe I just know what you like,” Jim shrugged, and McCoy raised an eyebrow.

“Well, that can’t be it,” McCoy drawled, grinning when Jim chuckled in response. He soon moved on to the apple Jim had brought in, crunching away happily and content. When he had finished, he stretched out on the bed, tucking his arms behind his head.

“Jim,” he said slowly, and from the look Jim gave him he could tell where he was going. “I think we should talk about it,” he said, picking his words like you would pick blueberries: going straight for the ones that were the least sour.

“I don’t want to, Bones,” Jim said, looking down at his lap.

“Jim, you swung first. I’m pretty sure if anyone has something to get off their chest, it’s you,” McCoy said, a little less delicate, but not with less affection. He sighed when Jim’s schooled his face into a blank slate, effectively shutting down. McCoy sat up with a sigh, picked up the food tray, and set it on the floor.

“Jim, look at me,” McCoy said sternly, and when Jim pointedly looked across the room, McCoy reached for his hand. “Fine, if you won’t look at me, you at least have to listen.” He waited for Jim to protest; instead, he looked out of the bottom corner of his eyes, watching McCoy’s thumb trace over his sore knuckles.

“Are you going to use the regenerator?” Jim interrupted, and McCoy blinked slowly.

“No, Jim. I wasn’t planning on it,” he said, releasing Jim’s hand.

“Why not?” He asked, turning his head quickly.

“Because… Jim…” he faltered, trying to find the right words. “I should never have reacted,” he said bitterly, turning towards him. “I mean… I should have just let you get it out of your system rather than egg you on.”

“You mean you think you should have just stood there and taken it,” Jim said, his eyebrows raised. “Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you won’t just heal us both. It won’t take that long,” he said impatiently.

“I’m trying to,” McCoy grumbled. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I just feel like this will help serve as a reminder. I want us both to have to live with this,” he said, sounding and looking like he wasn’t satisfied with the answer.

“But _why_ ,” Jim was starting to sound impatient, and McCoy turned his head sharply to scowl at him.

“Because I love you, damnit,” he snapped, and Jim’s eyebrows raised a fraction. He turned his head away, and McCoy’s stomach dropped as he waited for what felt an eternity. It took McCoy a second to realize that Jim wasn’t shutting him out; the bastard was trying not to smile, looking anywhere but at McCoy. When he finally turned his head back, his smirk had widened into a full grin, but there was nothing mocking in it.

“It’s about fuckin’ time, Bones,” he said, his eyes sparkling. McCoy scoffed, and reached out to smack the side of his head. With a chuckle, Jim shook his head. “I love you, too.” He said quietly, looking down at his hands. He glanced back up at McCoy, who simply nodded, pressing his lips into a line.

That hadn’t been as hard as he thought it would be.


	13. Chapter 13

McCoy waited another two days before he finally cracked and used the regenerator on Jim. He’d been complaining nonstop about his knuckles, jaw, and the bottom of his ribs where McCoy’s fist had left an imperfect bruise. He somehow managed to guilt-trip McCoy into doing it, although they agreed they’d both suffered enough.

Still, when Jim went to take the regenerator from his hands, he’d pulled it out of Jim’s reach.

“What are you doing?” He pouted, making another grab for the device. McCoy pulled quickly out of reach.

“I agreed to put you back together, not the other way around.” McCoy ignored the eyebrow Jim threw up, and turned his back on him.

“Bones,” Jim called after him, frustration coloring his voice.

“I’ve got work to do,” McCoy replied, and with a sigh Jim flung himself back onto their bed.

The sky was just starting to wake up when McCoy unlocked the front door, determined to have a normal work day, if only to keep away from Jim’s prodding for as long as possible.

He was thankful not to see Jim all morning, but it was not a particular surprise a few hours later when he heard Jim’s bike start up around the back. He stilled his movements, listening to the revving of the engine. It rumbled gutturally for a few minutes and then the sound got smaller, until he couldn’t hear it at all. Although he knew Jim would be back, he still felt a painful twist in his stomach.

It hadn’t been easy to explain to his customers why his eye had a purple-blue hue to it, and he told them simply that he’d ran into something, and ignored it when they tried to pry. The irony was lost on him.

Before he knew it, afternoon was passing into evening, and Jim wasn’t back yet. The pearl of dread that had filled his stomach earlier in the day had developed into full-blown worry, tucked into the bottom of his gut. He knew that when Jim left it was because he needed his space; that didn’t mean he had to like it.

When the last person finally left the diner, McCoy locked the front door and reveled in the quiet. He fell easily back into his old routine, except this time, his thoughts were filled with excitements and doubts. Even with all of their talking through the fight, they had still managed to avoid the one thing Jim needed to know, and McCoy couldn’t say. Because, if he said it, that would make it real. That would make it a promise. Yes, he’d told the kid he loved him; yes, the kid had said it back, but that didn’t mean anything.

Well, that didn’t mean Jim knew he’d follow him across the stars.

He’d still loved Jocelyn when she told him it was over, after all; there are some things love can’t fix, but this was not one of them. He knew that. He knew what Jim needed to hear, and he knew that if he didn’t hear it soon, McCoy might lose him.

He thought about it for the next hour as he put up chairs, swept and mopped the floors, and did all of the evening’s dishes he hadn’t gotten to yet.

He busied himself with the routine cleaning of the grill, a task that ate up all of a half hour of his time. Eventually, though, he had nothing left to distract himself with in the diner, and he turned the lights off. He left the back door unlocked, and the flood lights on, and made his way up to the apartment.

McCoy knew they both needed laundry done, so he further busied himself by tidying the apartment. When the laundry was done, he dumped all of it on the bed and started putting things away.

By the time the low rumble signaled Jim’s return, the apartment was spotless. The blanket they’d snuggled under the night before was folded neatly and stowed under the coffee table; the dishes from the last couple of days had been cleaned and put away. McCoy paced the living room, trying to decide where he wanted to be when Jim finally walked in. At the last second, he grabbed his PADD and flopped onto the couch, his heart racing. It was almost midnight, and he knew he’d never open the diner in time the following morning, but he wanted to be ready to take care of Jim in case he came back from a fight.

After what felt like a lifetime, but in actuality was only a matter of minutes, he heard Jim’s riding boots thunking solidly up the stairs.

The walking hurricane paused in the doorway and heaved a sigh, and McCoy caved. He glanced up from the padd, in time to watch Jim’s nose twitch. The effort of breathing in through his swollen nose made him snort, but McCoy only frowned.

“Jesus, Jim,” he breathed, setting the PADD aside. It was just a blank screen; he hadn’t even pulled up something to pretend to read. “Are you drunk?” He got slowly to his feet, approaching Jim like he were a jungle cat.

“No,” Jim mumbled, and it’s halfway true. He’s not drunk, but he’s had a few. Carefully, McCoy placed his hands on either side of his jaw, tilting his head this way and that. Jim shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the kitchen counter, but otherwise stayed still. There was blood on his shirt, and flecks of it dried on his face. McCoy released him after a quick inspection, took a step back; Jim curled his bottom lip in, his mouth slightly uncoordinated as his tongue swept over the chapped skin.

McCoy took his hand gently, inspecting the cracked knuckles.

“Ow,” Jim winced, his hand twitching. McCoy followed up his wrist, fingertips brushing across a burn mark on his forearm.

“Jesus.” McCoy let out a breath, turning his forearm to follow the trickle of blood coming down from his elbow. “What the hell happened?” He looked up at Jim’s face, noting that he had yet to meet his eyes.

“Just a fight,” he mumbled. McCoy pressed lightly on his knuckles, checking for loose bones, and Jim hissed in his next breath. He dropped it and took a step closer, putting his hands on Jim’s shoulders.

“Damnit, Jim,” he muttered, cradling the side of his head. Jim leaned into his touch, closing his swollen eyes.

“There was a girl.” Jim’s eyes open, revealing the trouble and apology. “She wouldn’t tell me her name, but she was in reds. There were a few others with her. I picked a fight.” He paused, sniffing once more. He set his hand over McCoy’s wrist, keeping it in place. “Pike showed up.”

“Pike.” McCoy tests the name, searching his memory. Of course: the Starfleet captain. He drops his free hand from Jim’s shoulder. “And what did _Pike_ want?” He practically spits the name.

“What he wanted all along.” Jim licked his lips again. He’s floundering, looking for the right words, and finally he swells up. “IsignedupforStarfleet.” He says it into the space between their chests, his gaze directed somewhere near McCoy’s sternum. The worry that had been nibbling at McCoy’s stomach all night transformed into something different, something even more palpable.

McCoy swallowed a breath and twisted his hand out of Jim’s grasp.

“I’m sorry, Bones.” It’s barely audible, but McCoy hears it.

He swallows his fears and takes a deep breath.

“I guess that’s it, then.” Without hesitation, McCoy turned around, walking straight into their bedroom. For a second, Jim stared at the place where he just was, and then followed him into the room.

“What are you doing?” He asked, wide-eyed. McCoy was standing in the open doors of the closet, pulling out clothes left and right. He tossed an armful onto the bed, and Jim stared at the clothes.

“Packing.” McCoy deadpanned, dumping another. He smirked slightly, and returned to the closet. Jim stared at the clothes, and he knew something just wasn’t clicking. The clothes on the bed weren’t just his; McCoy wasn’t kicking him out.

“But Bones…”

“I’m going with you, idiot.” McCoy dumped another armful, leaving the closet almost empty. He turned to face Jim with his hands on his hips, and within the span of a heartbeat Jim had flown at him.

They fell back onto the pile of clothes, McCoy palming Jim’s face once they settled. The grin on his face lights up the room, and McCoy winds up pulling him down to swallow it.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to go.” Jim’s voice gets lost in McCoy’s mouth, trapped between their lips.

“You didn’t think I’d actually let you go without me, did you?” McCoy rumbled, one arm keeping Jim pressed tight against his chest. He rolled, taking them off the pile and onto a flatter piece of bed, and buried his face in Jim’s neck. “You didn’t think I’d actually let you go?” McCoy’s voice had taken on a slightly different sound, muffled by Jim’s skin. McCoy tastes salt on his tongue, but it’s all Jim. “Not for a second.”

Jim rolled his hips into McCoy’s hand, wrapped his legs around his waist, and pulled him back by a fistful of hair. “But you hate space,” Jim protested, searching McCoy’s face.

Leonard McCoy wasn’t the type to squirm in discomfort, but he did just then, not quite meeting Jim’s gaze.

“I do,” he admitted, pressing Jim’s hips into the mattress with his own. “But I’d rather be up there with you, than down here without.” He sealed it with a kiss, and started pulling Jim’s shirt up his torso. “I’m not using the regenerator on you again,” he grumbled, revealing more of Jim’s battle wounds.

“I love you,” Jim breathed, pulling him down once his shirt had been discarded. McCoy grinned against his mouth, feeling Jim’s tongue trace the outline of it. He says it back without making a sound.

* * *

 

It only took McCoy a matter of hours to arrange for someone to look after the diner. It took no time at all to pack up their few belongings, and as the sun came up over the horizon the next morning, Jim tugged him onto the shuttle.

He pulled a flask out of his shirt, taking a long swig, and passed it to Jim.

“I hate you,” he growled, allowing Jim to pull him onto the aircraft.

“You love me,” Jim grinned, helping to strap him in.

McCoy leaned towards Jim, his eyes screwed together in order to focus on Jim.

“I may throw up on you.”

“I think these things are pretty save,” Jim smirked, but he set his hand on McCoy’s knee and gave it a squeeze.

Somehow, they survived the trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I'm sorry this took so long.~~ I got side-tracked by the new fic I'm writing, and I couldn't get back into the right mindset for this Bones. I'm sorry if it doesn't add up or leaves loose ends.


End file.
